


Sad Things, Made Bright

by Virodeil



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Star Wars - All Media
Genre: Character Study, Drama, Family, Fluff, Friendship, Gen, Grey areas
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-17
Updated: 2017-12-20
Packaged: 2018-09-18 04:46:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 21
Words: 37,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9368570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Virodeil/pseuds/Virodeil
Summary: In a strange twist of fate, Harry Potter and Neville Longbottom shared not only a prophecy and the griefs tied to it, but also many more, among which were a bond of brotherhood deeper than any before or after, a bounty-hunting Mandalorian father, an ex-slave Tatooinian mother, a Toydarian godmother who happened to own a space station, and cloned little siblings down the line. And to the utter consternation of all too many people, they loved this arrangement very much.A crossover between the Harry Potter series and several other elements, chief of which is Star Wars.





	1. Go Getaway

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The puzzle pieces are assembling themselves…

**5th December 1988**

 

1.

 

The boy who had used to be Freak, who had to accustom himself to the name of Harry James Potter these two years, as he was enrolled in the local primary school alongside his cousin Dudley, fretted silently with his answers for the last exam of the semester. If his grades were above his cousin’s, he was guaranteed to be punished severely at the place he was forced to call home, by people he was forced to call relatives. He had long resigned himself to getting no hint of affection from them, and yet at times he still longed for some, and this cold end of November day was no different. Other children tried their best during the exam period to win something from their parents… Nobody tried their worst instead, like he did, and there was even no acknowledgement for his ‘achievement’ at the end of it.

 

He nibbled at the head of his pencil, as his eyes restlessly roamed the classroom, noting all the bent heads, shifting gazes, silent, tense air, and the sounds of scribbling pencils and shuffling papers. Dudley was thankfully not placed in the same classroom with him this time; but then, it also provided him with a new problem: How to gauge how low his mark should be, if he couldn’t see how panicked Dudley was when looking at the exam items? Was a sixty percent mark low enough for the Dursleys? Should he lower it further to fifty or even forty? But he could fail the year if it’s too low!

 

He gritted his teeth, and glared at his answer sheet. He longed to do his best, to be praised to have done his best, to be _acknowledged_ for being a decent student and a good child. All were unattainable, and yet he still hoped, and he was mad at himself for it.

 

And then, as it had happened several times already in his short miserable life, the anger and frustration and desperate longing transformed into an intense desire to rebel. It bubbled up from deep in his guts, up his chest, seeping into his blood and spreading to all over his being. Even if he was to be locked in his cupboard for the rest of the winter holiday with one meal every three days, even if he was to be spanked severely or even belted or caned, he was going to do his best and passed this year with flying colours.

 

2.

 

Neville huddled in a corner of his prized greenhouse, farthest from the entrance. He was taking refuge there, while Great-uncle Algernon was visiting with his grandmother, the stern creepy old man’s elder sister. The man wasn’t so different from his other family members, constantly demanding feats of magic from him and being disappointed with the lack of even a spark of it. The thing that differentiated Uncle Algie from the rest was: they only talked about it at length, often comparing Neville unfavourably with his oblivious, nearly insensate ex-Auror parents, but he _acted_ on it, in a _year to year_ basis no less.

 

Neville shuddered, wishing that the packed earth beneath his quaking shoes would open up and swallow him whole, before Uncle algie could design yet another stunt to flush his magic out to the open for this year’s attempt. He’d had to pass through a greenhouse patch full of hungry venomous tentacula last year! He’d been quite fortunate that he liked plants and knew their weaknesses, so he’d come out alive if with numerous poisoned scratches.

 

He dreaded what his great-uncle would come up with for this year, if it had been _that_ deadly last year, when he’d been _seven years old_. In fact, he was now contemplating a getaway into the woods, maybe living as a hermit and keeping greenhouses for sustenance and income. His family wouldn’t miss him much, if at all, since he was practically a Squib anyway according to them – even his grandmother.

 

They always said, “Better dead than a Squib.”

 

Well, he’d say, even if just to himself, “Better a Squib than dead.”

 

3.

 

The planet Earth, seen through the long-ranged viewer from beside its single moon, looked just as scarily quaint, just as shockingly diverse, just as rich in natural resources as Jango had remembered it to be, in his few forays thus far onto its surface with and without his companions. It was a comforting constance that he cherished every time he needed it, like now. He had long trained himself to speak a smattering of the two most used languages here, even, so that he could at least minimally function in many of its myriad communities, when he needed a more thorough break from everything that was going on in his life.

 

He deserved a long holiday, he told himself. He had just escaped slavery which had run for three years, which had been preceded by betrayal and smear campaign all rolled in one, which had seen the annihilation of his comrades – his troops, his companions, his friends. Besides, it took more than a galactic standard month to reach this back-of-beyond place, with the most minimum of necessary stops to replenish water and air supplies, also to prevent clostrophobia from setting in. With those points in mind, he could at least stay for a galactic standard year or two here, couldn’t he?

 

He shifted restlessly, sliding forward on the pilot’s chair of his spaceship, which had been his adoptive father’s years ago before the man had been betrayed to his death on the battlefield. Before him, as it rotated in its orbit, Earth glimmered in shades of blue to naked eye on the viewport of the cockpit, while slightly above him the viewscreen of his long-ranged viewer showed islands and continents steadily pass by. In that planet, he knew nobody and nobody knew him. In that planet, currently in a peaceful state, he needn’t constantly defend himself physically and verbally and mentally, and he might even accumulate some wealth, if not acquaintances, without his past – both the good and the bad – weighing him down.

 

In that planet, he could be a nobody.

 

Perfect.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My knowledge of Jango fett is only the scattered scenes I've seen on the film Attack of the Clones and what I've seen on his profile (and that of Kal Skirata) on Wookieepedia. I haven't read the EU novels written by Traviss, nor do I plan to do so in the not so distant future, so things may not be the same as what you may have known or thought or expected, and for that I apologise. still, I welcome discussions, critiques, comments, and even constructive flames. And above all, I hope you enjoyed this chapter, and will enjoy the rest of the ride. :)  
> Rey


	2. Surviving and Still Searching

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> what can you do, when life is against you?

**20th December 1988**

 

4.

 

Christmas was near, people said. Well, but there was no Christmas for freaks, so the boy who was now Harry James Potter had taught himself not to care about it. Not easy at all, that, especially since wherever he looked, people ripe in the festive holiday mood were so excited – even ecstatic – to get together with their families and communities, sharing the cheer all round.

 

Maybe, it was why the Dursleys had chosen to lock him outside for this period of punishment, which was supposed to last till school was in session once more. The occasional snowstorm, the icy temperature and of course the multitude of snow were bonuses, as far as they were concerned.

 

And they were right.

 

They’d taught him and always told him that he’d got nobody, not even them, though they’re supposed to be his relatives. They said they’d taken him out of the goodness of their hearts and he’d spat at it time and time again, by doing so many freaky things like jumping onto the roof, turning Miss Genna’s wig blue, and cheating with his freakiness to get better grades than Dudley. This year’s winter holiday just drove the lesson deeper.

 

He huddled under the toolshed’s front eave, shivering hard as the latest bout of storm tossed and whipped the snowflakes into a vicious frenzy before him. Other families and individuals were safely ensconced in their homes, with a lit fire or an activated heater, with a mug of the hot chocolate drink and the Christmas cookies Dudley so loved near at hand. He wished he was one of them. But he was afraid to wish too hard, since it’s what had led him to perform freaky things. He’d been threatened with no school, if he did such thing again, and he’d prefer trying to outlast this punishment to not going to school at all till he’s an adult.

 

His hands had long been jammed into his armpits under the thinning tatty winter coat – or rather, winter _tent_ given the size, for him – but it didn’t help much. His body was equally chilled to the bones as it was.

 

Maybe, maybe, if he went out of the neighbourhood far enough, there’d be someone who’d want to share Christmas with him, at least? He’d heard about people banding together because of experiences and interests, so maybe there were other miserable orphan children out there who’d like to share company with him? He’s already outside anyway, not locked in his cupboard like usual. He imagined spending the storm time like this would be better with company rather than by himself.

 

Second by chilled second, minute by agonising minute, he loved the idea all the more.

 

5.

 

Neville stared at his grandmother, horrified.

 

“B-B-Blackpool, G-Gran?” he squeaked, stuttering.

 

“Neville,” the old woman sighed, aggrieved and so, so disappointed. “It’s as if we’re bringing you to Azkaban! Stop overreacting, child.”

 

The condescending disappointment stung, very badly, but by now he’d been trained to ignore it as much as he could. The prospect of going to Blackpool, though, he couldn’t ignore it; not if he’d like to survive, at any rate.

 

He was very, very grateful that he was shooed back to his quarters then. He retreated into his bedroom with much more alacrity than the usual, to which his grandmother must have shaken her head in irritation and more of that condescending disappointment.

 

He was glad he couldn’t see it.

 

His little library was largely populated by herbology-related tomes and scrolls, since plants had always been his passion, to his grandmother’s further disappointment. Maybe, to survive this latest Yuletide family trip – which would no doubt be the scene of yet another attempt to force his magic out to defend him – plants could help?

 

A beach like Blackpool could offer so many ways to test his magical ability, ways that could kill him otherwise. Buried in the sand, drowned in the water, towed out offshore, hung out of a hotel room if they lodged in a Muggle inn like last year… He’d need to prepare for all eventualities. If his magic – or, most likely, lack of it – couldn’t help him, only his own mundane failsafes remained; they would have to suffice. His family’d better not know of these cheating failsafes, though, or they’d confiscate those, and he’d be without anything when the time came.

 

Well, the trip was only several days ahead. He’d better start now. Maybe he could wheedle his grandmother to let him care for tropical underwater plants, in exchange for his ‘good behaviour’ in the family trip and better marks – “Fit to be a son of two decorated Aurors,” she said – in his lessons? He could order some Gillyweed, then…

 

Maybe, maybe, he’d survive this trip too, this way?

 

6.

 

Maths were easy, when one had to deal with rudimentary astronavigation for in case the navcom failed or got damaged. The lettering and numbering systems which represented those calculations and equations: _those_ were the hard part.

 

Fortunately, with how hard and pressured his life had been thus far, Jango was used to learning things as quick as he could in many kinds of situations. In fact, his current situation could be called luxurious, in his standard: an adequate bedsit – bed, desk, chair, tiny bathroom – in the heart of a city called London for sleeping each night, semi-authentic flash education degrees from his prior visits to Earth, the name Jeremy Vod in his false birth certificate and various identity cards, several good paying remote works with research-and-development companies for weapons and space exploration, and a chance to learn several types of hand-to-hand combat. He just needed to be careful about staying as anonymous as he could. It necessitated him repressing a good many things including his knowledge and ideas, but he was used to such measure during his stint as a slave recently.

 

In the half a month since he’d touched down on this planet, he’d amassed a good sum of this planet’s form of money, after setting aside some for accommodation, sustenance and self defence tuitions. Well, he’d amassed suspicion and some mild hostility from rival consultants, too, but those were to be expected, and he didn’t plan to stay here for much longer anyway. He could easily up himself and move to the suburbs like he’d originally meant to do, since his belongings, equipment and money were always tucked snugly into his sturdy, waterproof, ever-present pack. He just needed a reason or a situation that would carry him to that point.

 

But till then, he’d enjoy himself here, trying to decipher all the different cultures and whatnots by haunting bookstores, libraries and parks and scanning all the writings he could get his hands on into his datapad. Who knew if all the knowledge would prove valuable later on? An educational, anonymous holiday was quite a boon, and he was determined to enjoy it to the fullest. Branching his place of operation to the suburbs in preparation to moving there was quite a good idea, too.

 

A map of England was once more pulled out of the pack, as he finished his latest assignment for British Ministry of Defence. It switched places and attention with the paperwork, and Jango didn’t spend any more time thinking about the latter. Now was time to fully relax, after all. He was starting to be accustomed to the feel of real papers under his fingers, too.

 

Closing his eyes, he let his forefinger trace a widening spiral away from the dot that represented London on the plastic-laminated surface. Let fate – or the Force, perhaps, as _some_ said – bring him somewhere he could appreciate.


	3. A Chanced Conversation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And then, one becomes two.

**20th December 1988**

 

7.

 

It wasn’t all the time that Surrey had lots of snow. It’s rare, in fact, according to the adults and children now spilling onto their lawns and even onto the white-layered streets. They laughed and exclaimed happily as they began impromptu games among the abundance of snow. But of course, they’d got their coats and boots and mittens on, and many of them even sported thick cosy scarfs in addition to those and their inner winter clothes.

 

The boy who was supposed to call himself Harry James Potter watched as near as he could to the cheerful players and watchers, desperate to bask in their nearly tangible warmth. He could barely feel anything on his body now, and a few points – ear-tips, nose-tip, fingers and toes – even pinched horribly. He felt so sleepy, oddly, despite the stabbing pains in those areas, but he was determined to watch, huddling behind the low brick wall running in front of Privet Drive Number Four, home of the Dursleys. This sight, this warmth, they could sustain him when next he’s locked in his cupboard. He could imagine playing with his long-gone family, then; he could even pretend the Dursleys liked him and wanted to play with him.

 

He was so absorbed in watching the games and trying to battle his sleepiness, he didn’t realise that a stranger was now sitting on the brick wall that was his hidy-hole, right beside his peeking head. He didn’t, that was, till the stranger laid a gentle leather-gloved hand on top of his head and ruffled his messy hair a little, with a warm, soft, accented, “Hello, little one. What is your name?”

 

He should be forgiven, he thought, that his first response was: “ _Eep_! Who’re you?”

 

Fortunately for him, the man was amused, instead of offended. His laughter was just as warm as his quiet voice, too. “I asked first, I believe?”

 

The boy flushed. “Sorry, sir!” he squeaked. But what should he say? Should he give the man the name his aunt had instructed him to use at school? Or “Boy,” like his uncle used? Or even “Freak,” like Dudley used? But he disliked all three of them…

 

The moment passed before he knew it. Caught unaware by fretting about his answer, the boy let out yet another “Eep!” as the man effortlessly picked him up over the low brick wall, and seated him down on it. “Where are your parents, child?” the man then asked, while hugging him sidewise.

 

The boy couldn’t answer for a long moment. He could imagine that this tall, wiry man who showed him such generous kindness was in fact his father, coming to take him away. His mother might come down the street with a wide, warm smile for him next, and maybe with welcoming siblings in tow too.

 

“Child?” – ` _Why’s Dad so concerned? It’s so warm. I just wanna sleep for a little while…_ `

 

“Ad’ika?” – ` _What’s that? Doesn’t sound like English. It’s even warmer now, and snug, and comfy. Nobody can hurt me here. His voice rumbles nicely from here, too._ `

 

“Child? Open your eyes please?” – ` _But my eyes are open… aren’t they?_ `

 

“I am sorry, ad’ika.” – ` _What? – Ow!_ `

 

The boy squeaked for the third time in their weird, unexpected encounter. Something had been jabbed into the side of his neck, and now he was very, very much wide awake. He didn’t know what had penetrated his skin, but now he well knew that he was no longer seated on the low wall, burrowing himself into the side of the stranger who’d shown him such kindness.

 

In fact, he was now perched snugly in the man’s arms, like he’d ever seen other children do with their parents or elder siblings. His head had even rested on the man’s shoulder, hence the rumbling voice, if judged by the spot of pressured warmth on his right cheek, before he’d been jabbed with whatever it was.

 

Their eyes met, as the man still stood, carrying and hugging him close as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

 

Black; the man’s eyes and wavy hair were black, and his skin was brown, and his face looked rather hard and cold. But his eyes were very, very warm, and the small smile curving up his thin lips was so sweet, meant just for the boy.

 

An emotion that the boy couldn’t name bubbled up from his guts, punched up his chest, forced its way past his own lips and eyes. One sob became two, three, four; and before long, without quite knowing why, he was weeping in earnest, clutching fistfuls of the man’s thick winter coat, with his head lying once more on the crook of the man’s shoulder, bathing the man’s coat with his tears and snot. The large hand from earlier, which was now caressing his hair intermittently, just wrung more out of the messy waterwork.

 

Even when he’d calmed down, however long afterwards, the man still didn’t let him go, and he felt too comfy and safe to wriggle away anyhow. The man wasn’t creepy like the teachers had warned him and his classmates at school, or like his aunt had always warned Dudley for that matter. If he could stay like this forever, he would.

 

The man seemed to know what the boy’s thinking, surprisingly. Seating himself back on the wall, with the boy now curled up in his lap and fenced in snugly by his arms, he looked down and their eyes met again. “Where are your parents, child?” he murmured, repeating the question that the boy realised he hadn’t answered.

 

“Dead,” was the curt, sad, tiny-voiced answer, as green eyes looked away from black to hide the longing in them.

 

“You… live with… whom?” was the next question, asked a little stumblingly though still earnestly, with even thicker accent.

 

The boy frowned; not because now he realised the man must be a foreigner, but because he’d just realised that this wouldn’t last. The Dursleys wouldn’t permit the man to make visits with him, if the man even wanted to do so in the first place; they might even go so far as locking him in the cupboard forever to prevent him from talking with anybody ever again. ` _But he’s so nice! He saw **me** , though there were so many other kids round here, and he hasn’t called me a freak yet, and he hasn’t put me down for that matter, and…_`

 

“Ad’ika?”

 

The boy stirred and looked up, blushingly realising that he’d just snuggled into the man’s arms again. “Sorry, sir,” he murmured awkwardly. “I… I live with Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon and Dudley here, sir,” he added hastily.

 

The man frowned. “Slower, please?”

 

The boy blushed deeper, but repeated his explanation dutifully. At the end of it, though, unable to contain himself any longer, he blurted out, “What’s ad’ika, sir?”

 

Surprisingly, it was the man who looked away, now. When he met the boy’s eyes once more, the warmth in his own black eyes was dimmer, more distant, which made the boy concerned and even a bit frightened. “Sir?”

 

The man smiled sadly. “You no need fear me,” he murmured, and he seemed to mean it. The boy relaxed slightly, but daren’t repeat his question.

 

Still, the man, as if detecting his curiosity and willing to indulge him, answered his earlier question, while still looking right into his eyes, however discomfited both seemed to find it now: “Ad’ika, it is… child, little child, _my_ little child, my… little son.”

 

 _Son_. The word reverberated strongly in the boy’s mind, shuddering through all parts of him, warming his entire being. _Son_. He knew some people said it casually to address any younger male, like he’d seen done by the old janitor at school and the bobbies on the streets; but here, he doubted the man meant it as such. _Son_. So it meant…

 

“Are you my dad?” The boy daren’t look into the man’s eyes, daren’t believe it yet, daren’t nurture a hope, couldn’t speak beyond a tiny squeak that was barely audible, sounding in time with the shriek of another child’s laughter across the street as it was.

 

The large leather-gloved hand which had caressed his hair now cupped the side of his cheek, tilting his face up by way of a gentle nudge of thumb on his chin. Green eyes met black once more, and the boy’s breath hitched, as he beheld the strong emotions playing in the man’s eyes.

 

“You like living here?” the man asked instead, softly, hesitantly.

 

The boy shook his head. “No,” he added for good measure, as firmly as he could, since his aunt and uncle oftentimes demanded verbal answers from him.

 

“They are who, to you?” the man asked again, still cautiously.

 

“Aunt Tuney’s my mum’s elder sister,” the boy explained. Then, after a brief bout of hesitance, he added, “She said my mum and dad died in a car crash, and they’re penniless drunks and layabouts.”

 

If he could look away, he would; the story of his parents’ death was still as humiliating to him now as it had been snapped at him several years ago by his irate aunt, regardless of how many times it had been told to him ever since, or how many times he’d told it to teachers and fellow students when forced to do so in class. But the man was still trapping his face in that large hand, half drowning it in fact, and still looking intently into his eyes too. Any time now, the man would fling him away in disgust, or laugh at him and said that the apple didn’t fall far from the tree, or gave him some condescending advice not to follow in his parents’ footsteps…

 

But the man, now cupping the boy’s other cheek with his other hand, instead said, “I am not your father. But I can be your father. You want that?”

 

The boy’s eyes widened exponentially. “Yes,” he breathed, unable – maybe unwilling, too – to believe the precious, precious offer. ` _Please let it be true, please please please please… Please don’t let it be a lie, like Uncle Vern’s used socks for my birthday last year._ `

 

“Yes,” he said louder and more firmly, even as, unknowingly, he was now clutching the man’s jacket once more in his nearly frostbitten hands. “Yes, I… _please_ , sir.”

 

“It is… final,” the man, however reluctant he looked and sounded, still tried to warn the boy. “Once I speak the words, you are my child forever, in my people’s culture. I cannot take the promise back. You can, if you want to take it back, but I cannot.” Vulnerability crept into his face, lending his hardened features a softer cast for once, and it only made the boy relax further.

 

“No, sir, I won’t,” the boy promised solemnly. And just so, a smile bloomed on the man’s face, a tiny thing that crept steadily wider till it looked like splitting his face in two, softening and warming his features further.

 

“Ni kyr’tayl gai sa’ad, Kad Fett,” he proclaimed in a quiet but firm voice, then kissed the boy’s brow. “I know your name as my child, Kad Fett. You are no longer nameless and parentless. You always have a home and a parent with me, Jango Fett, also known as Jeremy Vod.”

 

“Home,” the boy breathed, looking desperately into the man’s frank, warm, intense gaze. “Kad… Fett,” he tried the name, and found he liked it. “Dad.” He liked this one even more.

 

A matching beaming smile slowly crept across his face. “Dad. Home. Kad Fett.”

 

He loved it all.


	4. Barely Believable

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The nosy, the busy, and the uneasy.

**20th December 1988**

 

8.

 

Jango couldn’t believe it. He’d come to Little Whinging in Surrey just on a whim, wishing to sightsee and think on moving homes should a place struck his fancy. And now, the whimsical trip had born him _a son_ , almost literally.

 

He didn’t know why the tiny, scrawny green-eyed lad had fascinated him so much. The boy, clad in far oversized damp rags out in the snow, hadn’t participated in the impromptu merry-making in the neighbourhood of same-looking houses, although the said boy had watched the said games and laughter avidly, enviously, longingly; maybe it was that? And then, fascination had grown quite outside his awareness into understanding, empathy, then a reciprocating longing.

 

Mandalorians weren’t meant to be alone, to live alone, and yet all his loved ones and trusted comrades had either been missing or dead. This was his chance to fill in that need for companionship, to repay what his adoptive father had done for him when he’d just been a child violently orphaned by war, to pass on his name and values and skills and all the affection he couldn’t show the universe at large, and he’d grabbed it with all alacrity.

 

He had a son, now: Kad was the boy’s name, Kad Fett. He had spoken the sacred adoption vow with the boy’s knowledge and awareness of it, and the boy had accepted him quite happily.

 

He still couldn’t believe it.

 

It didn’t change his duties as a father, however, and there were things he had to remedy as soon as possible in Kad, namely the boy’s malnourished frame and the excuse for winter attire that the said boy was wearing. Hence, they were now in the nearest shopping centre, with Kad still perched in his arms and looking round in avid tourist-like interest at everything and everyone.

 

All the same, he hadn’t factored in his different features, and how unkempt and battered Kad was.

 

“I’m sorry, sir, but who are you to the boy?”

 

He had to commend the salesgirl, willing to confront a tall, strong-looking man, when her height – in her high-heels – just reached up to his torso. But nonetheless it presented a complication that he needed to get out of, _extra fast_ , for the sake of himself and his new son. The security guard nearby, who was eyeing him with growing distrust, must have a lot of colleagues here, and the mob would separate the perceived child molester from the poor victim without any more question asked.

 

“I am his adopting father.” He hated lying. He would stick with the truth. It was worth it, anyway, to stick with the truth, with how beautifully Kad’s overly thin face _glowed_ with that statement.

 

And still, the salesgirl’s eyes narrowed further. “Could I see the paperwork, sir?” Her chipper, polite tone was barely there.

 

It was his turn to narrow his eyes, now, with a vicious glare added in. “Kad need _dry_ fitting clothes. You cannot see? He need warm food, too. I finded him in thick snow. If he is more sick, I fault you.” His knowledge and little mastery of the language called English was fraying and unravelling, he knew, and he didn’t care.

 

The salesgirl relented, with not a little hint of fear in her face. But Jango knew he and Kad weren’t safe yet. The security guard who had been nearby was now retreating to the front door of the children clothes shop, all the while talking in the noisy, badly transmitted thing Earthlings called radio. Their way out would be blocked, or they would be tailed closely to the nearest healthy-food eatery that he could find.

 

Still, as he’d told the salesgirl in no uncertain terms, Kad needed warm fitting clothes badly, and then he’d need warm healthy food too to help heat him up from inside, to battle however long he’d been left out in the snow by those excuses for sentient beings. Only then Jango would confront whatever coming their way, with finality if he couldn’t help it. His holiday on Earth might be cut short, and he might be unable to come here any longer in the future, but having Kad and the boy’s loyalty and love was worth it all.

 

Now, for good-quality clothes that weren’t garish…

 

9.

 

The boy – no, _Kad_ – felt like he was in a dream, a very nice dream indeed. He was now garbed in clothes – _winter clothes_ , no less – that matched his size _perfectly_ , down to the smallest items that he had only ever seen or known worn by other people, all in sedate shades of green and grey with a smattering of white and silver. The pinching pain in his fingers and toes and nose and ears had been rubbed away gently but firmly using some kind of salve by Mister Jango – no, _Dad_ – too, and now a veritable feast was laid before him, _just for him_ , while _Dad_ was eating by his side, truly like a family, like Uncle Vern and Aunt Tuney and Dudley in their kitchen. A pair of burly policemen and an office-worker-like woman also sitting at their table – unspeaking, unsmiling, glaring suspiciously at Dad and giving Kad himself pitying looks every so often – spoiled the experience somewhat, but he couldn’t complain about that when everything else already felt like heaven, when he felt pleasantly warm inside and outside for the first time in his memory. Dad ignored these sudden additions anyway, so he’d ignore them too.

 

“Don’t eat too quick, Kad. The food is always there. You can eat more if you eat slow.” – The attention, it was equally marvellous and dreamlike. Even the rebuke was different from what Uncle Vern and Aunt Tuney had always snapped, yelled, snarled or roared at him: softer, kinder, even indulgent, almost like the rare times when Uncle Vern or Aunt Tuney scolded Dudley, minus its sickly sweetness.

 

Kad looked apologetically up at his new father, feeling a little bit apprehensive as well. But his dad, who now he noticed was garbed similarly to him except with blue instead of green, just gave him a warm, amused glance, a glimpse of softness out of the hardened features.

 

Even so, Kad relaxed. His dad was a quiet, intense man, and he rarely showed anything with his face, only his eyes. It’s hard, though, to obey this instruction, more than when Kad had been to tell him the clothes, accessories and colours he liked. He’d had no experience choosing clothes for himself, that’s why, but he’d had _lots_ of experience having no meal to eat because Dudley had taken his.

 

Still, he tried to make Dad happy. He forced himself to imitate the tall man who’d been so kind to him, spooning his yummy soup slowly into his mouth and waiting till it’s gone to let his spoon make another trip to the bowl. The hot cocoa which Dudley liked so much was waiting in the mug in front of his bowl of soup, too, beside the tall glass of water and the plate of stickbread slices topped with corn salad; he’d like to be able to eat or drink them all.

 

10.

 

Petunia Dursley, formerly Evans, looked away from the front window and padded over to the kitchen in the furred, fluffy pair of slippers her dear Vernon had gifted her for Christmas last year. It was lunchtime now, time to feed her dearest boys with their favourites. She shouldn’t have lingered for so long by the front window in the first place, but the wog in undeserved good winter attire who’d parked himself so rudely on the low wall bordering her property had been talking with her freaky nephew, and she’d wanted to see what would happen next.

 

She couldn’t have been happier that the man had left with the boy, and hoped with all her might that they wouldn’t ever come back. It would serve the boy right, talking with such an untrustworthy person, while he ought to have gone back to the shed. Freaks attracted freaks, she decided.

 

And yet, why had she lingered for so long after they’d been gone? Even those noisy, squealing children – quite unlike her perfectly behaved Diddykins – and their undignified parents had retreated back inside their homes already for some time now.

 

Gritting her teeth, she banged the skillet onto the stove’s burner and put three extra rashers of bacon into it. No, she _refused_ to think about the freak any longer. If he was out of her hair forever, so much the better. She had her own family to care for; and those freaks had been so rude anyway, dropping the boy without so much as a by-your-leave on her threshold that November seven years ago. With him gone, Dudley wouldn’t have to contend with the thought of having no magic while his own cousin did, unlike what had happened to her all those decades ago with Lily.

 

No, no, they were indeed better off without the little freak. Let the adult freaks sort this out by themselves. Petunia Dursley’s dream had come true, miraculously: She had no more tie to the world which had rejected her so summarily.

 

Good riddance, she’d say.


	5. Chaving Complications

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first trip is always a bumpy ride, isn't it? In more ways than one…

**20th December 1988**

 

11.

 

Kad skipped along beside his tall, quietly self-assured dad, marvelling at how snugly and comfily his feet were wrapped, relishing the way the much smaller version of his dad’s backpack – filled with water bottles, fruits, breads, something Dad called a “datapad” and a pouch of change money, _just for him_ , Dad had said – bouncing on his back, also wondering with much unsaid gratitude at the large hand the man kept sheathed tightly round his own much smaller appendage. Now he looked truly like a child and his father! He’d seen many other children – some with their mothers, or even with their father and mother – walk this way both on the way and in this huge place full of shops and things and milling holiday-mooded people, and he was inordinately proud and pleased about it. He and his dad kept their whole winter apparel on even inside the shopping centre, with their winter-coat hoods pulled low over their face even when they’d been eating recently, unlike other people, but he didn’t care about it. He was doing what his dad was doing and it was awesome! They looked like the masked and caped superheroes in the cartoons and films Dudley liked to watch too!

 

Kad panted tiredly after a while, as they slowly but steadily traversed the white-coated streets presumably back to Privet Drive, but he was determined to walk by himself and show Dad that he wasn’t a baby to be coddled. He was warm and full and comfy for once, even though they were in the outdoors, and all because of Dad, so he’d show Dad that those contributions had meant something much for him. He’d show the two burly policemen and the office-worker-like woman still trailing them that his dad was an awesome father, too.

 

They didn’t stop on Privet Drive Number Four, oddly, but Kad didn’t mind much. Jango Fett, also known as Jeremy Vod, was his father now, so Kad went wherever the man did. If he could – if he dared – he’d ask Dad to stop for a moment to fetch his baby blanket from his cupboard, but maybe not now. Dad seemed to be in haste to go somewhere, judging from how often he glanced at the odd wristwatch round his left hand lately, though his pace never changed from before.

 

Kad was proven right when, at the edge of the playground park near his neighbourhood, they stopped beside a big, sturdy-looking deep moss-green jeep, and Dad beeped the car open. “Come inside, ad’ika,” Dad said, for the first time after they’d finished their meal and shopped in the supermarket inside the shopping centre, while opening the front passenger door for him.

 

Kad eyed the huge seat inside with wondering eyes, unable to believe that, for once, he’d be seated in front like Dudley always was whenever his cousin asked it of Uncle Vern. But now he felt a little bit apprehensive, somehow; maybe because of the huge car and its huge insides? Could he ask, though?

 

He turned slightly, looked up at Dad.

 

Their eyes met. Dad raised an eyebrow, just as the policemen and the woman caught up with them, panting like Kad had been.

 

Kad flushed a little, but didn’t look away. Gathering all his courage and preparing to duck away in case Dad didn’t like him asking questions like the grown-ups usually were, he blurted out, “Where’re we going, Dad?”

 

“Quite a good question, lad,” one of the policemen blustered, still panting, while glaring sternly at Dad. Kad flinched, but Dad didn’t let go of his hand, and didn’t close the door either.

 

“Kad and I go to our home,” Dad answered the policeman curtly, coldly, and Kad could see him and his friends lean back, flinching. Kad wanted to flinch away himself, but his hand was still in Dad’s. He was starting to be scared of Dad now, like he could see those three grown-ups were; but it’s wrong, no, to be scared of one’s own father? Dad had never taken that tone with Kad, but who’d say he wouldn’t later on, if Kad bungled up something like people had always told and scolded him?

 

The woman knelt on the snow several paces in front of him now, seeming to disregard the white stuff clinging to her trousers. “Hello, little buddy. What’s your name?” she sing-songed crooningly, like Aunt Tuney with Dudley. But unlike Aunt Tuney when talking in her sickly sweet voice to Dudley, Kad couldn’t detect any fondness for him in her face.

 

Well, how could she? She’s a stranger. Dad’s a stranger too, still, but Dad never concealed the fact that he’s new in this, judging from his somewhat awkward, somewhat tense silence and the way he always kept a grip on Kad’s hand.

 

It would be rude to ignore her, though, right?

 

“Kad,” he said, in a small voice, even as he retreated backwards and sidewise from the hand the woman was extending. Dad’s legs seemed so solid and strong, a perfect place to hide.

 

However, instead, for the second time ever in his memory, he was lifted up into a grown-up’s arms. Thankfully it’s Dad, and Dad didn’t seem to think that his retreating action just now was cowardly.

 

Feeling safer now that Dad’s arms were snug round him, and he could still grasp Dad’s hand even so, he turned a little in his high living perch to regard the two policemen, and also the woman who was now getting up back to her feet and dusting snow off her trousers. The policemen had relaxed slightly, oddly enough, when Dad had lifted Kad up into his arms. But the woman had a calculating, contemplative look in her face, like she’s plotting something, like Uncle Vern did before assigning Kad a _long_ list of chores.

 

Remembering that, Kad cringed.

 

And just so, Dad said stiffly, sharply to the three other grown-ups, “You frighten my son. We go now. You go your way, we go our way.”

 

Oddly, though, Dad then closed the cardoor and relocked it, before skirting the jeep’s boxy nose.

 

` _Huh. Aren’t we going home with this jeep?_ ` Kad thought, bemused, even as Dad picked up his pace once the movement of his legs was no longer visible, screened by the jeep’s nose. But then, he amended himself.

 

He could hear the policemen and the woman rush to catch up with them after a moment of understandable stupor. But by then, Dad had quickly opened the lock and the cardoor to the driver’s side, shoved himself and Kad in, closed the cardoor again, and was in the process of both locking the cardoor and turning the engine on at once. The policemen and the woman crowded the newly locked cardoor, pounding their fists at its window, making Kad cringe yet again and instinctively try to lean away from the said door, even as Dad was in the process of engaging the gear for departure.

 

*(1)“Haar’chak! Kad, ke’shaadlar!”

 

Only then Kad realised that he was nearly on top of Dad’s forearm, obstructing the gear-stick’s way. So, with a squeak and a whimper, though he didn’t know what Dad had just shouted at him, he threw himself away from the gear-stick-handling hand, back to the window, to the fist-pounding grown-ups.

 

The said grown-ups vanished from the window, then, as the jeep jerked forward violently, in full throttle, which threw Kad against the steering wheel, which prompted yet another – though curter – slew of sharply-spoken foreign words from his dad.

 

12.

 

Jango glared moodily at the road before him, as he tried mightily to navigate the still-unfamiliar mode of transportation while in a high-speed getaway through an unfamiliar route. He relaxed a little as this painfully land-bound vehicle slid into greater traffic with minimal fuss from the other road users. The situation was controllable once more, for now.

 

A mean, vicious thought passed through his mind, that he regretted having so hastily adopted the boy still cowering in his lap, given how easily frightened the said boy had been quite recently. Unfortunately he had spoken the adoption vow, and he could not renege on it, or he would dishonour himself, one of the worst fates for a Mandalorian.

 

But then, his mind flashed to the obscenely inadequate rags the boy had worn before he had remedied the problem, the suspicion that the boy had been left out for longer than a few hours in a snowy day with the evidence of a snowstorm having just blown past, and the fact that the boy had been grotesquely grateful for even a simple meal of some bread, soup and hot drink.

 

And then, came the vivid memory of the boy looking up at him with glowing adoration.

 

He let out a long, deep sigh, willing his irritation at the boy to fade alongside the breath. If he would be realistic and honest to himself, his current level of vexation wasn’t entirely caused by Kad’s perceived cowardice and weakness, but rather by the Earthlings who had tried to snag his son away from him – his _family_ , after the last of them had been violently torn away from him years ago. He had brought this on himself anyway, hadn’t he? He had adopted a random boy he’d encountered just because the boy had so adored the idea of having a name and a parent and a home. Now his holiday was to be cut off, and it was all his own fault for being so impulsive, not guarding himself against those open, trusting, innocent vivid green eyes.

 

Now, he couldn’t directly teach Kad about his new heritage yet; it would be like trying to build a stone house upon a grass-covered quickmire, or trying to shoot a blaster with a decayed powerpack.

 

He would have to teach Kad about how to be a healthy boy first: physically, psychologically, emotionally. All, while he himself was barely recovered from his stint as a slave, and still mourning his comrades slaughtered by the worst act of betrayal yet from two parties at once.

 

He could only let out yet another sigh to that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Footnote:  
> *(1): “Damn it! Kad, move (away)!” (Language created, owned and used by Karen Traviss in her _Republic Commando_ novels.)


	6. Lust for Learning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Baby steps, baby steps…

**20th December 1988**

 

13.

 

Kad, relegated to the front passenger seat with an abundance of awkwardness, both of the physical and relational types, eyed his father of several hours warily. Things had calmed down in their escape – the escape that he still thought as unnecessary – but the set of Dad’s shoulders was still tense, and Kad feared yet another outburst from the man. He was beginning to regret his decision to be adopted so summarily, actually. Had he just exchanged one blustery man that he knew to one that he didn’t?

 

But…

 

His hands, still gloved, caressed the top of his not-so-empty backpack. All inside, for him, Dad had exasperatedly confirmed, for the however many times he’d timidly asked since the first item had been added into it. And then there were also all the warm, comfy winter clothes he was now clad in, which was his first experience _ever_ in his life.

 

Uncle Vern wouldn’t _ever_ give him any good food if the man could help it, let alone half a sackful of food _and_ some expensive bottled water.

 

Uncle Vern had _never_ clad him in other than Dudley’s tattiest things.

 

Then again, Uncle Vern would _never_ ever touch him except for punishment, let alone _carrying_ him so snugly and comfily like he imagined a father would, for _more than_ ten minutes at that. He was a big boy, he shouldn’t be carried anywhere and everywhere like a baby, but he couldn’t help relish the experience, even some time after it had ended. The warmth of another human being snuggled against him, the strong, solid arms wound round him kindly, protectively, the solid broad chest rumbling pleasantly, the tough, broad shoulders he’d cried on so messily without any complaint from their owner…

 

He hugged his backpack close, snuggling into it as much as the sit-belt would allow, trying to recreate the novel sensations of being cared for so intimately. He didn’t know why Dad had been mad at him – was still mad at him, maybe – but at least Dad _cared_.

 

14.

 

The scrawny little child was curled up on the front passenger seat, dwarfed by the simplistic crash webbing, and looking horrifyingly like he was about to be hanged or trust up for a meal, with how one of the two lines pressed against his neck and the other half-drowned his belly. Jango found the look disturbing, somehow, despite all the atrocities that he had witnessed sentients and non-sentients wreak on each other in his twenty-five years of life. It could be… distracting, yes it could; he must remedy this as soon as possible, maybe with one of those seats customed for children that he’d seen in one of his jaunts into this planet’s – no, _london’s_ – shopping malls.

 

He frowned through the viewport – no, _windshield_ – at the deserted countryside road the quaint but sturdy vehicle was trundling along on. There were so many things to do, so many things to acquire, so many things to teach the child in addition to those – because whether he liked it or not, whether he regretted it or not, Kad was _his son_ now, and he had a heavy responsibility, not to mention a huge obstacle to overcome, in preparing the little boy for the harsh universe out there.

 

Looking at a glance at the pitiful tablo beside him, he felt an unexpected sense of guilt and shame, noting how the boy was still hugging his little backpack with all his might, although some time had passed after they had been forced to vacate Privet Drive in haste. They had only been father and son for _several hours_ , although it had somehow felt much longer than that, so misexpectations were bound to happen… right?

 

He wished he could have asked his own adoptive father, about how to be a good adoptive father to a child not far younger than he had been when war had come upon his farm and taken his parents from right in front of his eyes. Better yet, he wished he had never come to this tech-forsaken planet and come upon the eager, intense waif with vivid green eyes.

 

He glanced once more at the boy.

 

But this time, their eyes met.

 

Kad looked away quickly, but Jango had glimpsed fear _of him_ before the boy had done so.

 

It nauseated him.

 

He had brought Kad into this mess, it wasn’t the boy’s fault, so he was the one who must get them out of this too.

 

` _All right, Jango. Start with the very beginning, with the thing that the both of you can do now. This planet is not technologically savvy enough yet to put security cameras in places like this. It is safe enough, and it may be better to wait here awhile until the fuss goes down at any rate._ ` So… “You wish to learn, ad’ika?”.

 

The glowing, eager, adoring look from that overly-thin little face he was rewarded with restored his faith in Kad, instantly.

 

15.

 

“Oh Gran, please?”

 

A pleading, eager look, pudgy hands clasped in front of the boy’s chest, looking up, up, up at her, with Frank’s eyes set in Alice’s glowing countenance.

 

Agusta Longbottom sighed. “Neville…” If only the lad was more like his father and mother, if only he had been more adept in curses and counter-curses, in defence and offence, rather than tending gardens and greenhouses, however useful the latter set of skills was…

 

“It doesn’t take up lots of money and maintenance, Gran, I’ve read about it,” came the next wheedling part, unexpectedly, which sent her eyebrows up her wrinkled forehead in surprise. Her grandson was usually – quite unfortunately – too intimidated with her or anybody else, somehow, to offer such sally. She hadn’t realised how observant he was, as well, especially with something as obscure as their financial problems. She’d tried to shield him from such problems, fearing that he would draw even tighter into himself than before if he realised the cost she’d paid for his tutors and greenhouses, but it appeared that her efforts had been for naught.

 

If only he would apply this observant streak, which had been characteristic of her Frank, into his lessons instead of just his hobby garden… He could be a great Auror like her frank and his wife someday.

 

That was, if he had his magic, and those despicable trio of vicious, vicious Death Eaters hadn’t done something irreversible or irreparable that horrible day seven years ago, when she’d lost her Frank and Alice.

 

But if, after all, he had turned into a Squib…?

 

“All right, all right, Neville, but make sure you study hard from now on. And don’t slump, young man, it’s unbecoming of a scion of House Longbottom.”

 

…At least, with this, whatever the lad wanted a tropical pond garden for, he might have a chance in his future, in a world that was nearly intolerant about Squibs. The reputation and finances – let alone prestige – of House Longbottom might go to the gutters, but at least its last scion should not follow suit. He might even thrive in the Muggle world, tilling plants.

 

She reflected ruefully as the lad thanked her profusely, hugged her tight, then streaked away, stumbling on his own feet, to the direction of his greenhouse: She ought to be accustomed to disappointments by now, after seven years.

 

16.

 

Albus Dumbledore stared wide-eyed at the collection of huffing and puffing and whistling and clinking little gadgets he had in his office. There was something _wrong_ with them, or one of them maybe, and he had a very, very bad feeling about this.

 

An absent-minded wave of a wizened hand summoned him a piece of blank parchment and a self-inking quill from one of his many drawers. He needed to get to the roots of this problem as soon as he could.

 

A quick sweep of his eyes found him the anomalous gadget. A tap of the Elder Wand, and the self-inking quill began to write on the parchment.

 

It wrote him a very, very disturbing analysis.

 

 **Name: Kad Fett**  
**Gender: male**  
**Age: 8 years 4 months 20 days**  
**Guardian: Jango Fett**  
**Home: jeep in Sussex**

 

The information, especially the name, had changed several times already since the night he had dropped baby Harry on the doorstep of Privet Drive Number Four, the residence of his only living blood relatives. It had alarmingly switched from “Harry James Potter” to “Boy,” then to “Freak,” and even to “Unknown” lately, but he’d anticipated this; he’d known that he’d placed the boy saviour of the Wizarding World in a less loving environment that other people unaware of the bigger picture would have chosen for him, and he was willing to shoulder the burden of that knowledge for the greater good; but… this…

 

Who was Fett? Why had Harry’s home – and therefore, the place where his blood wards lay – changed? Were the Dursleys taking him in a holiday? But even when they had taken him in a holiday before, the “home” part had still shown him the address of the Dursleys’ residence! They were not meant to take him for too long or too far, at any rate, with how the bulk of the wards were embedded on the grounds of the house. And how could the guardian’s name change to a stranger’s? It had always shown “Petunia Dursley” before…

 

He really, really needed to get to the roots of this problem as soon as possible. Maybe Severus could help him? He had better not tell Minerva yet, however; time was too urgent to spend listening to her castigations.


	7. Chafing Complications, Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The cuddly version of a bounty hunter.

**20th December 1988**

 

17.

 

At present, Jango felt vindicated that his old paranoia was, after all, had not been an empty fear and caution mixed into one. His companions had joked about him creating three sets of identities to use on this backwater planet alone, a different identity for each visit, which had ended up in different parts of Earth. But now, contrary to their belief that he didn’t even need one, he was making use of _two_ of his identities already in just a single visit, in less than half a galactic standard month.

 

He was fond of this land-bound vehicle Earthlings called a “jeep,” that was why. It was _his_ , and he had earned it honestly for once, so he wasn’t about to let go of it without a fight, even though he’d be a laughing stock in the rest of the galaxy if he was ever caught driving such primitive contraption. It was such a silly notion that he didn’t wish to contemplate on it any longer; and yet, he kept with his decision to switch his identity to the second one, instead of just ditching the jeep somewhere and take Kad on a public transportation.

 

The jeep’s previous identity, shown for all to see by way of a series of numbers and letters printed on metal plates on the front and rear of the vehicle, might have been compromised when he had driven away from those pesky, nosy Earthlings. So, while lecturing on the usefulness of different identities to use to an attentive Kad as they were parked in the middle of a huge meadow with excellent, unobstructed view all round, he had replaced the number plates _and_ his driver’s license, alongside a pack of other documents that he conveniently kept in one folder, all under the name “Jaster Gra’tua.”

 

“You must do thorough when change your identities, Kad,” he continued in the low tone he’d been keeping as, finished with the alterations, he and Kad climbed back up into the jeep. “You must _never_ forget your own identity, however. Be true to yourself whenever you can. Change identity only when necessary.” He gave Kad a stern look, to which, to his satisfaction, the boy nodded solemnly with wide eyes.

 

“Sometimes, we only have honour, nothing else,” he went on in a quieter voice, remembering his years as a slave, as he looked deep into his new son’s eyes. “Never lose your honour, Kad. Face your friends and enemies as yourself. If you fight dishonour with dishonour, you just insult yourself. You insult me, too, as your father, if you do that.”

 

Those vivid green eyes widened even more, if possible. “No!” the boy squawked. “No, I won’t!”

 

Jango shrugged. “Just remember what I say, Kad’ika. Remember that when you need to act. It is a weapon, like blasters, or knives, or the sword you are named for.”

 

“I’m named for a sword?” Kad’s eyes lit up, losing their solemn tinge. Jango let loose a mental sigh and nodded, preparing himself for a barrage of questions, like earlier when they had been talking about the mechanisms of the jeep, as he had been searching for bugs or homing beacons the Earthlings might have left on it.

 

By now, he’d ruefully realised and acknowledged that he’d made an error in judgement about the boy’s personality. Kad might be overly intimidated by furious people and loud noises, and the boy had an irritating tendency to be overly timid in expressing his thoughts, opinions and ideas; but if removed from such things, his thirst for knowledge was like a waterless traveller lost on a desert planet far from civilisation.

 

Well, but it was a good time anyway, wasn’t it, to teach Kad about the boy’s new heritage as a Mandalorian? He could use the time to get into his armour, too, and teach Kad about using a small blaster pistol should the boy’s interest be peaked by his armour and collection of weapons. His armour, after all, minus most of the weapons, could act as further identity blurrer, like he’d seen those “clowns” do in the few shopping malls he’d visited, however much he despised comparing his well-functioning, life-saving armour with those soft, garish, ridiculous costumes.

 

Eh, he had a bad feeling about this setup…

 

18.

 

Kad skipped along beside his father with renewed energy, having been held back for so long in their jeep ride across the countryside and several counties, while talking about Mando’a – the Mandalorian language, his dad’s people’s language – and also the Mandalorian culture. He must have forgotten several things, especially since he’d been feeling so sleepy before they’d parked here, but he was equally sure that he’d gotten most of them. Dad had coached the lecture in interesting – and oftentimes exciting – stories, after all. It beat watching those stupid programmes on telly like Dudley did! He had even gotten some chance to play – no, _practise_ – on what Dad had called a “blaster,” which looked and sounded a lot like a toy pistol with its whining noise and red beams, which had culminated in a brief target-shooting training with a few pieces of leaves and grass-blades. His dad had been so stern when talking about how the blaster wasn’t a toy at all; but anyway, Kad himself had seen how scorched those poor, poor leaves were when he’d managed to nail them at last with it, and he didn’t want to imagine how it might be on _human skin_.

 

Dad had lots more of the blaster and blaster-like things in his humongous backpack, and he’d promised Kad could learn to use them soon enough if he behaved and treated those weapons not as toys. He’d even promised Kad could wear a similar robotic full-body armour to what he’s wearing right now later on, when he’s grown up. – And imagine that, Mandalorian children became adults at the age of _thirteen_! Just five more years…

 

Kad’s going to shut up now, though. Dad looked and sounded… frazzled. He didn’t want to get lambasted again like earlier in the day. Dad had sounded a bit like Uncle Vern back then, just even scarier, and he’d _love_ to avoid a repetition of that moment. He supposed he could just bask silently in how they truly matched each other in his current get-up despite the different materials and shapes, with how Dad had switched his winter coat inside out, so he’s clad in blue-grey-white now instead of green-grey-white. Dad had even let him bring the small blaster he’d practised in, put back in its holster and clipped onto his hip similar to how Dad had two much larger blasters clipped onto the waist-band of the blue-grey-white armour, and he didn’t forget to bring his little backpack – _his_! He still couldn’t believe it – along, too.

 

The moment became more perfect when, apparently tired of having to match his best pace, Dad swooped Kad up into his steel-plate-covered arms as they neared the glass door leading into the shopping mall proper from the parking space. Dad had promised him a trip to the bookstore for whatever books or items he might need for his “earth education“ – such a weird term – while they weren’t hunting for other supplies, but this was far better than that. True, Dad wasn’t so cuddly to snuggle in, wrapped in blue-grey-white metal plates like this from shoulders down, mostly mounted with weird contraptions that Dad called weapons no less, and he couldn’t see Dad’s face too since Dad’s entire head was hidden in an odd white with blue streaks helmet with a black with blue streaks line running vertically down the middle of the visor and an antenna jutting out from one side, but it’s still _Dad_ , and this was only the third time ever that Kad was carried willingly by a grown-up.

 

Dad seemed quite uneasy, judging from how tense his shoulders were and how he picked up his pace even more, with how people stopped to gawk at them, quite intensely and interestedly at that. Kad could relate to that; he felt uneasy too, unaccustomed to so much interest from so many grown-ups. Maybe he could help? Distract Dad a bit, for example?

 

He looked away from the gawkers, shifted a little in his dad’s arms till he could rather comfily drape himself against Dad’s armoured chest, then his eyes landed on the pair of cylindrical things each looking like the mix between a rocket and a fire extinguisher that were mounted on Dad’s back alongside other contraptions. Dad hadn’t explained about this one, among others, so maybe…?

 

“What’s this, Dad?”

 

He reached his right hand up to tap the top of the twin cylinders, as his left arm wound round his father’s neck in between the shoulder-mounted scope-like thing to stabilise his perch. But quickly and silently, Dad’s armour-gloved, weapon-mounted hand, which could easily dwarf and crush his forearm, seized his scrawny appendage by the wrist and tucked it in between them.

 

“What I told you about touch weapons, Kad?”

 

The flat-sounding growl was electronically tinged, but definitely Dad’s voice, and _definitely_ displeased.

 

Oopsie…


	8. Instinct or Irrationality?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The powers that the wizardkind have forgotten needn't be obviously awesome, yes?

**20th December 1988**

 

19.

 

Dedalus Diggle prided himself on being an open-minded wizard, able to blend in among Muggles most of the times and not minding doing so in the least bit. Today was what he’d like to call his “Muggle day out,” in fact. He’d chosen this particular day because, although it was near Christmas, the temperature had discouraged many a Muggle from venturing out of home.

 

Well, he was _good_ , for a wizard, when it came to costume and mannerisms, but after all he wasn’t a Muggle, was he? Any leverage would help, including heat-charmed winter apparel.

 

The shopping mall was lively with Christmas decorations and Yuletide cheer, a little bit like Diagon alley. Dedalus skipped inside wearing his customary Muggle Christmas get-up of fluffy red and white coat hiding his Christmas robes, complete with tasselled red and white tophat and his prized black dragon-hide boots. He was ready for some Muggle-watching! The years after the defeat of You-Know-Who by baby Harry Potter had been the best for him. Year after year, he could walk among the Muggles without fear of some Muggle bating occurring where he was. As an Order member, after that fateful day, he needn’t fear for his own life too. All thanks to the sacrifices of James and Lilly Potter and their son Harry. He would have to prepare a special welcoming gift for the Wizarding World’s boy saviour when dear Harry Potter was entering Hogwarts age in three more years.

 

Now, where to go first? There were so many interesting sites to see this year! He could even see real reindeer on the sideyard, near the shaded food stalls, in a new configuration of winter cave, manned by somebody clad in a similar get-up to his. Many cute Muggle children clamoured round that man there… Maybe he could join in? They could pass each other as twins!

 

When he made a beeline there, though, he caught yet another intriguing sight on the corner of his eye: Opposite what the Muggles called “Christmas grotto,” in an area of the sideyard much more open to the elements, another congregation of adoring Muggles crowded round… something. They were of an older age, but no less excited compared to the little ones. People were so busy clicking away with their non-smoking Muggle cameras here just as much as the parents of the little ones did at the Christmas grotto…

 

Well, in fact, some of the parents from the Christmas grotto were looking every so often at the spot with that blue and white near-human metallic construct over there, whatever it was.

 

Dedalus veered away from the Christmas grotto without a second thought. The Christmas grotto would be there next year, most likely, if in a slightly different configuration; but this anomaly, he’d never seen it before, and he had the suspicion that he wouldn’t ever see it again. He couldn’t miss this!

 

The nearer he got, the more fascinated he became. The crowds here were more versatile, surging and ebbing in a steadily increasing number. The seconds in which they parted were enough for him to get a good look of their object of attention and admiration.

 

The human-like thing was tall and imposing, easily two metres high. It was clad in somewhat battered armour from head to foot, though of a strange design and colour, compared to those displayed at Hogwarts. What might be intricate ornaments or weapons were mounted on nearly all available surfaces save for the rounded-top helmet with a metallic stick jutting out from one side and two large unnerving eyeslots on the front.

 

Eyeslots which were looking right at him with precision and knowledge, with deadly intent no less.

 

He stopped short, his mouth dry. Was the man inside the armour a wizard? A Death Eater out for a spot of Muggle bating, even?

 

He inched closer, far warier than before, when the blue-and-white armoured maybe-wizard looked away, and said something in an odd tinged voice to the crowds.

 

His unease ratcheted back up, even greater than before, when the crowds parted with warm good-byes and harty hopes to be able to meet the armoured man again, and the armoured man himself approached Dedalus with measured strides. The bags and boxes weighing down one of his gauntleted hands and one side of his belt, also the little child garbed in blue and white winter apparel swinging from his other hand, did not lessen the menace oozing from the hulking figure even a smidgen. Worse yet for his pride, the crowds, which had only parted for the man and his child after all instead of dispersing, cheered on, as if entertained by a good live show like that of the Weird Sisters.

 

Lucius Malfoy couldn’t measure up to this. Merlin help him, the man could even compete with what he’d heard of You-Know-Who, menace-wise.

 

He couldn’t help it: He turned tail and ran, forgetting that he could just Apparate out of there and damn the Statute of Secrecy.

 

And the crowds behind him broke into riotous applause, breaking on his back like ocean waves battering on rocks.

 

And still, he could hear the heavy tread of the armoured man closing on behind him.

 

He had no doubt those sounds would feature heavily in his dreamscape tonight.

 

Vicious Muggles.

 

20.

 

Neville blanched. “R-Repeat that again, T-Tippy?” he pleaded to the Longbottom house-elf, who had just appeared before him beside his new tropical pond garden on the far corner of his greenhouse.

 

“Mistress Agusta tells Tippy to tell Master Neville, sir, that the family goes to Blackpool the day after tomorrow instead of four days from now,” the kindly green-skinned being repeated dutifully. “Mistress Agusta says to pack up well and nice from today, sir, so that Master Neville be prepared tomorrow morning when the family goes. Mistress Agusta also says Tippy can’t help Master Neville packing, sir. Tippy be so sorry, Master Neville.”

 

But Neville didn’t really hear what she was saying, past the first sentence, nor did he notice the distress she was in for once. His vacant eyes were fixed on the glass-like surface of the pond, with the tropical underwater plants and algaes waving or floating within. Horror and dread filled his numbed mind, with one sentence repeating endlessly inside: ` _The Gilliweed seedlings will only be ready for more than two minutes effect two days from now._ `

 

His hands shook mightily when a pair of small, spindly arms wrapped round his waist from the side, and Tippy’s squeaky voice sounded from somewhere by his upper arm, “Master Neville don’t be afraid. Tippy lays out everything, and Master Neville just puts them all in Master Neville’s bag. How about that, sir? Mistress Agusta needn’t know.”

 

If he could let out the incredulous laugh bubbling in his gut without letting out the watery sobs too, he would. Packing up for the ‘holiday’ was farthest in his mind right now.

 

He shifted on his little stool and hugged Tippy with all his might, relishing the smells of the kitchen and the scent that was just _hers_ that always clung to her tea-towel clothes. She had always been there in his short life, never disappointed in him, always attentive too, and he might lose her soon if he couldn’t come up with something for _tomorrow_.

 

“Tippy?” he whispered at the house-elf’s back on which his pudgy hands are interlocked, after a long inhale of wet breath. “If I… If I’m gone, t-take g-good c-care o-of M-Mum a-and D-Dad f-for… f-for m-me?”

 

The hug tightened astronomically. “Master Neville mustn’t say things like that!” Tippy burst out in a squeakier voice, even more distressed than before. “Master Neville be all right, and Tippy be waiting at home with warm pumpkin cakes when Master Neville be home.”

 

The laugh went off at last, alongside the sobs. How much he loved their unassuming, ever-caring little servant, whom he always considered his second mum anyway.

 

Maybe, if he knew for certain that death held people like Tippy, he would go there quite willingly. And then, one day, Tippy and his mum and dad could follow him and share in the joy.

 

Well, but if Tippy would be more pleased if he’s alive… “I can’t promise you much, Tippy,” he murmured shakily, while extricating himself from her arms with deep reluctance. Staring deep into her bulbous blue eyes, he continued more softly and steadily, speaking from deep in his heart and feeling something stir in him at the same time, “But you are mine, and I am yours. I won’t ever forget you, and I’ll always care for you.”

 

In front of him, Tippy sucked in a deep breath and swayed on the spot, looking stunned.

 

On instinct, Neville reached out and steadied her. That was when something electric seemed to run from his hands, up his arms and into his chest, before spreading into all directions. Dimly, as he swayed just as badly, he could hear Tippy’s squeaky voice proclaimed solemnly, “Tippy be Master Neville’s, and Master Neville be Tippy’s family. Tippy be always with Master Neville and his family.”

 

And just that, he didn’t feel so alone or so afraid any longer.

 

He truly had a family.

 

21.

 

Severus Snape was not a patient man. He had never been a patient boy, for that matter. But, like everything and everyone else in the world, there were exceptions to this characteristic of his. Potions were one exception, Lilly was the other.

 

“Severus.” Just one quiet word, coupled with a disappointed look through half-moon spectacles and that long, crooked nose, and his hackles rose. Albus Dumbledore was _not_ an exception to his impatience, especially now that he had been drawn away abruptly from a unique, interesting potions conference in Myanmar about rare poisons and their antidotes.

 

“You mentioned an urgent matter, Headmaster?” he drawled, meeting the disappointed look with a sharp glare. “Is the Dark Lord returning to life, perchance?” He made sure that the subtle mocking lilt in his voice stab through the words.

 

The old man’s disappointed stare deepened, tinged with agitation. Severus frowned at that. The mark of his enslavement hadn’t come back to life, so what could–

 

“Sit down, please, Severus?” A steely command, sheathed in frail gauze.

 

Frown deepening, Severus complied almost automatically.

 

To his surprise and further curiosity, however, the old spider didn’t dilly-dally as usual, and went directly to the heart of the matter. A tap of the Headmaster’s wand on one of his instruments, singled out on the broad oaken desk, and the quill resting upright on the bit of blank parchment laid between both men began to wiggle and zip here and there, writing in emerald ink.

 

Severus, reading the writing upside down, felt his ire rise higher as the information sank in, almost obliterating his interest and respect for the old codger.

 

 **Name: Kad Fett**  
**Gender: male**  
**Age: 8 years 4 months 20 days**  
**Guardian: Jango Fett**  
**Home: jeep in Kent**

 

“What am I to do with a _child_ , Headmaster? Is this the _urgent_ matter you wished me to attend to?” He glared venomously across the desk, unable to hold his anger back any longer. If he hadn’t promised _anything_ in exchange for the protection for Lily by this closet Slytherin, he would have upped and vanished from the old thing’s sphere of influence a long time ago.

 

But, again for once in a very long time, Albus Dumbledore returned his glare with a similar look, now almost soaked in agitation. “That,” the old man said slowly before Severus could continue his tirade, “is supposed to be Harry Potter, and his guardian is supposed to be Petunia Evans, Lily’s sister.”

 

“ _What?!!!_ ”

 

Dimly, Severus was aware that he was no longer seated, that there was a wooden crashing sound at the same time, but he didn’t pay heed to any of those. The name Petunia Evans rang strongly in his mind, dazing him. Lily’s child! _Lily’s_ , placed with the sister who’d hated her since they had been children, and the damned, Merlin-forsaken _liar_ had told everyone that the boy had been well taken care of in a secret safe house among the Muggles.

 

` _Well taken care of in the sense of her killing him, maybe,_ ` his mind supplied, as he found himself storming towards the door.

 

The door which refused to budge even when he tugged with all his might.

 

“Sit down, Severus.” The voice of the _liar_ thundered past his confusion, past his fury, past his disbelief, past his horror and humiliation. But it held no intimidation for him, not any longer.

 

Their eyes met once more. And this time, it was Albus Dumbledore who leant back as if punched.

 

Many, many words wanted to burst forth from his mouth, from his mind, but Severus refrained himself with all his might.

 

Albus Dumbledore did not deserve the breath and energy.

 

So, without a second thought, without even a last word, he jumped out of the window and flew right towards the gate, dodging the _liar’s_ attempts to summon him by magic all the while.

 

Harry Potter might be a lost course, but Severus himself was not. And bereft of his reason to live, also a reason to hate Harry Potter, he was left only with himself, and revenge against Petunia Evans, who had driven Lily’s boy into an unrecogniseable existence.

 

But surprisingly, even as he Apparated to Spinner’s End to fetch the rest of his belongings, he felt even more chained instead of freed from his obligations.


	9. Interlude 1: Father-Son

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When a bounty hunter is going lovey-dovey, targets should be wary.

**21st December 1988**

 

22.

 

Kad woke up very, very slowly, as if he was a fly trying to swim through honey – and yes, the experience was that sweet and exhausting, somehow, which was a first for him.

 

But then again, he wasn’t a fly, was he? Though he’d ever tasted a fingertip of honey before, stolen when he’d been making breakfast that one time, when a sleepy Aunt Tuney hadn’t been looking.

 

He burrowed deeper into the soft-layered, semi-solid warmth with new contentment, remembering the sweet, delicious, warm, sticky stolen lick with a wistful smile. The soft rhythmic rushing in his left ear, tempered with no-less-rhythmic calming beats, lulled him deeper into blissful oblivion.

 

But then his pillow moved, and he was ever so carefully detached from it.

 

He stirred.

 

Calming hands, warm hands, gentle hands, a pair of those, they caressed his temple and back in swipes and circles. The peaceful sensations only added to how alien the whole experience was, which eventually dragged him to full wakefulness.

 

He blinked, squinted up at the shadow looming above him. His sight was always bad when he’d just woken up; and lately, he couldn’t even see small things from metres away.

 

But to his relief, the aftersleep blurriness left his sight soon enough, and he could see a concerned tanned face with black hair and eyes staring at him.

 

The face of a stranger. But the man was strangely unintrusive and familiar for a stranger.

 

And then, “You only rested three hours, ad’ika. Rest more. Soon we go home.”

 

Now he remembered. “Dad?” Sleep-croaky, small, tentative.

 

The face looming above him nodded, black eyes warm. “Rest, Kad’ika. I work. We go when I finish.”

 

But by now Kad was wide awake, and rest felt a country away. He squirmed, afraid to defy the order but knowing he couldn’t do it.

 

Especially now that he realised he was curled in a _bed_ , tucked under a thick warm duvet, with his head lying on an actual, soft _pillow_ ; and the large still-warm spot beside him, melding seamlessly with his own far-smaller body, must have housed _Dad’s_ body.

 

He’d used _Dad_ as a pillow and a bed!

 

He stared up at the man, mortified and embarrassed and pleased and yearning.

 

He was answered by a smile by those black eyes, and a light remark of, “I think, ten years from today, you are too heavy to sleep on me. But today you are light enough.”

 

Mortification and embarrassment won out, and Kad ducked swiftly underneath the duvet. A peel of laughter from Dad followed him into his flimsy fortification, and he couldn’t help the giggle bursting out from his own lips in the silliness of it all. He couldn’t help basking in the warmth of it all, too.

 

But then, Dad left the bed with a brief pat at his duvet-covered head, and Kad felt strangely bereft. Solemnly, he peeked out of the thick, comfy blanket, the kind that he’d only seen and cleaned for the Dursleys, and watched as Dad sat on the desk nearby, scribbling something on a softly-glowing tablet – a “datapad,” Dad had called it, one that he’d given Kad as well.

 

Dad looked bored, now, and he frequently glanced at the odd wristwatch that never left his left hand. Dad didn’t seem to like his work, unlike Uncle Vern, though Kad had all too frequently heard Uncle Vern grumble about people at his workplace.

 

He shifted about, braced himself on his elbows and knees from under the duvet, prepared himself to similarly vacate the bed. But as his hands incidentally brushed under the pillow, he felt a hard, somewhat angular lump that had become rather familiar.

 

His little blaster.

 

His heart skipped a beat. He didn’t remember putting it there. Would Dad be mad at him? Dad had said the blaster wasn’t a toy. Kad assumed it wasn’t something like a stuffed doll he could bring to bed, either.

 

He glanced warily at Dad, who sported the same bored look from a moment ago, who was still scribbling away at the desk with eyes intent on the datapad. If he waited too long, he supposed Dad would be madder at him, as all grown-ups always were in his short life thus far; but if he apologised now, Dad mightn’t be kind to him, given the current mood.

 

Well, from his numerous experiences, the former scenario would leave Dad madder at him for a longer time. Better… “Dad?”

 

“Hmm?” Dad didn’t even look up, or pause his scribbling. A good sign. Maybe Dad would let this go?

 

“Sorry.”

 

“Why sorry, Kad’ika?”

 

“The blaster…”

 

Kad flinched, as Dad’s head snapped up and his writing ceased abruptly. The hapless boy squirmed guiltily under the sharp regard of his father’s black eyes, which seemed to be cataloguing every least bit of him.

 

But then, Dad raised an eyebrow. “What about the blaster, ad’ika? It is not with you. You lost it just now?”

 

Kad shook his head frantically, and hastened to draw the offending little blaster from under the pillow. “I just don’t know why it’s under the pillow, Dad,” he confessed. “Sorry, I don’t – didn’t – don’t… mean to bring it to the bed.”

 

Hearing that, Dad, unexpectedly, burst out laughing for the second time ever in Kad’s vicinity. Still chuckling, he beckoned Kad to him, and motioned the boy to bring his little blaster too with him.

 

It made Kad relax a little, and he approached his father with curiosity rather than outright fear. He relaxed even more when, to his surprise, even though Dad had done it several times already, he was lifted up into Dad’s lap, blaster and all.

 

And then, wonder of all wonders, Dad lectured him about never going _without_ his blaster or other weapon – or _weapons_ , for that matter – even when he’s sleeping or going to the bathroom – which Dad called the “fresher” – so that he could defend himself and his family if need be. Jango Fett was truly an awesome dad!

 

23.

 

Jango regarded the ‘research report’ he was painstakingly copying onto the paper with morose boredom. Two hours of sleep, five hours of boring written science work and going on still, for a sum of money that covered his purchases and expenses for the day with only a little extra. He’d been a soldier, a mercenary, a bounty hunter, but now he was reduced to being a datapad pusher. – Safer, yes, a good bland holiday for a little while, but was it worth it for this long a time?

 

At his side, _his son_ – a phenomenon he was still marvelling at even now – was busy with the boy’s own written work, tempered with some colouring-on-picture sessions, appearing just as bored as he was. Neither complained to the other, but Jango knew well how torturous staying still for _five hours_ must have been for a child, when the said child didn’t spend that time asleep, judging from his own nearly forgotten boyhood years.

 

Maybe, if he hastened a little, they could visit the boy’s former home sooner to fetch some keepsakes, as he hadn’t been able to do for himself those decades ago, and they could be off Earth just as soon.

 

Evening had crept in some time ago: a perfect time to slip away in most planets, and earth wasn’t an exception in this case. He’d meant to abscond with various weapons native to this planet that he’d seen from the local holonet – “television,” they called it here – channels, but Kad’s life could be in jeopardy from such action. Kad might resent him later on, as well, if, returning here for whatever reason, the boy found himself linked to a weapon heist of his father’s from when he had been in the age of…

 

The age of…?

 

“How old are you, Kad?” He didn’t know why he’d never asked this of Kad, and he felt foolish because of it. The boy must be about five years old, he knew, but–

 

“Eight, Dad, so Aunt Tuney said,” came the quiet answer, as the addressee stopped his paper scribbling. “When I started school last year, she told me I was seven, and my birthday’s on the thirty-first of July, and my name’s Harry James Potter.”

 

A horrible clenching feeling seized his heart mercilessly. _Eight years old_! With this stature. And the boy had only been informed of _his own basic identity_ last year?!

 

The pen nearly broke in two in his grip, though at present he was unarmoured.

 

Outwardly, although he couldn’t help tightening his jaw, Jango just nodded with his eyes fixed at the book of blank lined papers in front of him. Then, after several deep breaths to regain as much of his prior calmness as possible, he resumed the tideous work of copying his writing into Earth’s medium and lettering.

 

He had a long, exhausting road in front of him, with what a mockery of life and childhood he suspected his little Kad had led before they’d met. Better being informed of the unpleasant facts than wallowing in pleasing assumptions, however, and now he had the ammunition he needed to define strategies to better treat, care for, and train his boy.

 

 _This_ also changed his approach to Kad’s former home… or _prison_ , rather.

 

Maybe, after all, he was going to get the action he had been craving these long hours, without actively searching for it.


	10. An Egregious Encounter, Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A bounty hunter in action. Nuff said.

**21st December 1988**

 

24.

 

Petunia Dursley sat contentedly nursing her cup of evening tea in the sofa in the living-room, relishing the not-so-quiet time relaxing with her boisterous boys, who were watching a rebroadcasted football match on the telly. The two days without the freak nephew of hers had been odd and rather tiring, but she was sure she could cope well quite soon. After all, she’d managed marvellously before the freak had been dumped on her doorstep like garbage all those years ago, when her Diddykins had needed all of her attention. The added hassle and tiredness of keeping a good and enviable household were a worthy price, when she was rid of her sister’s brat for good.

 

She couldn’t have asked for a better Christmas gift, and Christmas was less than a week away at that…

 

So it was with much annoyance that she heard somebody knocking three times firmly on the front door, sounding just shy of banging rudely at the wooden plank.

 

“Uncivilised people,” Vernon declared grumblingly as he hoisted himself up from his armchair. Petunia sniffed her agreement. – Visitors? At _eight_ in the _evening_? Without prior engagement? Uncooth, indeed!

 

But there was no need to let her boys’ evening entertainment be interrupted by this uninvited, unwelcome guest, wasn’t there?

 

“I’ll get the door, Vernon dear. Just keep our Diddykins company. I’ll make both of you an evening snack after this,” she smiled indulgently at her husband over the blond head of their preoccupied boy, to which Vernon nodded with a delighted smile of his own, which sent flutters into her belly.

 

Her mood quickly soured, however, when the three-time knocking sounded again, just as insistant and loud as before. She flounced towards the front door, fully believing that, if it’s not one or some of those unruly, uncontrollable brats playing with the doors of respectable home owners, then it must be one or some of those zealous religious door-to-door preachers, seeking another tactic to hook her and her precious boys into whatever dogma they were selling.

 

She jerked her front door open. But her lips, also opened in preparation for the occasion of delivering her well-deserved tirade against whoever it was, closed instead with the snick of her teeth.

 

A tall, bulky _something_ with two legs and two fingered arms was standing casually on her doorstep, filling in the doorframe with little margin vertically and horizontally, with one of its hands holding something that looked suspiciously like a smallish modified pistol right at her heart. It looked rather like a life-sized humanoid robot from one of those films and telly serials her boys loved so much, all metal with bits of leather in between the joints of the battered chassis, coloured silver and grey and blue. But unlike those robots, she had a nagging suspicion that this one was _fully intelligent_ ; and those odds and ends mounted on or hanging from the chassis, including the back of its metal-and-leather-gloved hands, it was so easy to believe that they were _weapons_ – _real_ , harmful weapons.

 

Her heart, still on the crosshairs of the casually held pistol-like thing, thundered painfully, as her mouth dried up and her lips twitched in an effort not to show weakness by trembling. Petunia didn’t know how long she was standing petrified there, frightened within her own home, but the crazy robot didn’t seem to mind the stalemate, judging from how equally silent and unmoving it was.

 

This was _mad_! She thought she’d been rid of freaky folks and events like this when her sister had died; and just now, she’d even _believed_ it, given how Lily’s burdensome brat had been missing for two days and counting, tagging along after that unknown wog in overly nice winter clothes.

 

No, she couldn’t accept this. She _wouldn’t_. This was _her_ home; she had a say in here, and nobody could threaten her here in her domain. She wouldn’t let it happen, _ever_.

 

So, gathering her composure with a deep inhale of the chilly wintry evening, she opened her mouth once more as she craned her neck up, seeking the robot’s eyes – or what might pass as eyes for this freaky thing – to give it a piece of her mind like a good brave, stalwart Englishwoman ought to.

 

It was a mistake.

 

Her mouth snicked close again, as it and her throat turned drier than she’d thought they could have ever been. But she could not look away, too petrified to move.

 

The robot had no mouth, had no nose, only a pair of large vertically shaped dark eyeslots filling the front of its rounded-top head, divided in the middle by a black strip going up that might generously be termed “nose.” As eerie as the sight was, however, she was not frightened by it. No, there had been far more frightful sights in the book about magical beasts that her sister had ever shown her nearly two decades ago.

 

But in all the detailed, lifelike moving pictures included in that book, _none_ of those freaky beasts had shown _human_ intelligence, intent and _calculation_ in their eyes, whatever their shapes were and however many they were on one creature only.

 

This robot, on the other hand, although its eyes were flat and unremarkable, and actually rather unrecognisable as _eyes_ , more like the eyeslots of a freaky helmet, seemed to pin her in place with deadly awareness, intensity and knowledge – and above all, _intent_. The flatness and shapelessness of those large eyes only made the sensation more frightening.

 

And then, it _talked_.

 

“Petunia Dursley.”

 

A quiet statement, male sounding, electronically filtered: slow like the pronouncement of a weighty verdict, deadly calm like the worst of the antagonists in all the dramas she’d watched on various media, simple like she imagined pushing the trigger of a gun was.

 

She shuddered, _hard_. And still, she couldn’t make her eyes look away, nor could she make her jaw unhinge even a little, let alone ordering her petrified tongue to move.

 

Her salvation came, unbelievably, when a cracking noise like the release of a gun broke the stillness of the winter night, followed by the second one almost in quick succession. It might be the sound of a gun indeed, or a car backfiring; but for once in her life, she wildly hoped that the noise belonged to the wizardfolk, and that they were here to help her – _in time_ to help save her from this robot.

 

She managed to open her mouth now, emboldened by the assumed help that must be coming soon. The robot seemed to detect the shifting of fortunes too, for it yanked a larger pistol out from its hip holster, though unfortunately without letting the one aimed at her heart waver for even an inch.

 

Then, in a fluid, graceful movement that she would’ve never thought the robot could ever execute, it whirled half about while backing away a little from its former position, crouching down just as a jet of red light flashed past the spot it’d occupied half a second ago.

 

In answer, four jets of red light, this time each accompanied by a sharp whining noise and the tang of ozone, leapt from the two pistols the robot held before the essayer of the first red light could manage anything else.

 

And on the street before her home, she could see Albus Dumbledore fell as in a slow motion, with four scorched holes on the outline of his garish, freakish robe.

 

A tabby cat with square markings on each eyes, maybe the same as that had visited Privet Drive seven years ago, streaked away from behind the old man’s crumpling body. It changed into a fierce-looking woman dressed in tartan, with her wand already brandished as she straightened–

 

And just so, four more of the ozone-smelling, sharply whining jets of red light downed her, just as easily as they had toppled _Albus Dumbledore_ , the person whom Lily had claimed as being the only mainstay they had against Voldemort – the terrorist who’d then killed her and her husband, but not her child.

 

Petunia let loose with a shriek at last, as, with yet another graceful, fluid movement, the robot aimed _both_ pistols at her.

 

A blue bolt lept out of the smaller pistol and struck her heart, and she blissfully knew no more.

 

25.

 

Kad watched as his new, _tangible_ , caring father, back in armour and this time wearing his full arsenal, confronted his aunt on the doorstep of Privet Drive Number Four. He’d been tasked to wait and guard Dad’s back with his little blaster in his hand, a white kiddy bike helmet covering his head underneath the hood of his winter coat of the same blue-grey-white side, and a pair of circular disk-like devises – supposedly for communication – slipped into the earslot of the bike helmet and clipped onto its strap respectively. By the low wall running along the front of Privet Drive Number Four, he’d made an artificial snow wall all round him, with just a small slit for him to see through and provide a means to flee should it be necessary, just like when he’d had some time to hide from Dudley and gang when they’d played Harry Hunting this winter hols, since he hadn’t been locked indoors – the contrary, in fact – for this period.

 

At his feet were his pack and Dad’s, sagging like a pair of misshapened clothes, having been emptied off their treasures, which had been stored – along with lots of other things – in the car before they’d left it at the end of Privet Drive. The bags were supposed to carry his most prized belongings, because they weren’t ever returning here again; Dad had been oddly quite insistant on the keepsakes. So he dreaded the time when Dad found out that, after all, he’d got nothing to bring with him, save for his tattered blue baby blanket, stitched with silver HJP on one corner, stored lovingly at the corner of his cupboard by where his head usually lay, on the tatty dog-bed donated ‘kindly’ by Aunt Marge five years ago – so Aunt Tuney had said. Dad had drilled him about all the details and layout of Number Four that he remembered, and they’d formed a bemusingly serious plan for just retrieving the nonexistent keepsakes, so he hadn’t had the chance to tell his father anything but what the latter had requested.

 

And then, accompanied by the sounds akin to the gun blasts from the telly shows Dudley and Uncle Vern liked to watch, two oddly attired people materialised from thin air on the street on the opposite end of Number Four, and one of them – a woman – even _changed_ ,into a _cat_!

 

Kad froze and gaped at their sudden appearance and the freaky things about them for a long moment. He couldn’t help it! The Dursleys had always called him freaky for ever so many things that he might or might not have done, and here _grown-ups_ did a score of freaky things so blatantly.

 

His distraction cost him precious time, unfortunately. The white-haired, white-bearded elderly man garbed in a neon-blue robe strewn with twinkling multicoloured stars, suns and crescent moons raised a hand bearing something like a straight stick, and red light burst forth from its far end, straight at _his father’s back_.

 

Kad’s heart felt as if it had leapt into his throat. The red light which scorched once it hit–!

 

But to his endless relief, Dad managed to twist away in time, and the red light splashed harmlessly against the small stretch of wall beside the front door. Dad even managed to send four beams of red light – two bigger and two others smaller – at the sneak attacker!

 

Kad lifted his own blaster at last, though he wavered between the slowly falling elderly man and the cat who had been a woman who now streaked from behind the body which would have crushed her. It pointed at the cat-woman at last, as she changed back into a human and raised a similar stick to the elderly man’s.

 

But before he could press the trigger, after setting it to the blue-light “stun,” since he’s curious to know more about the shape-shifting, and maybe Dad could wake up her later when they’re safe enough, Dad had already taken the threat in hand by four more of the bigger and smaller beams of red light. Seeing the woman fall, faster and with more force than when the elderly man had fallen, Kad slumped in his little fortification, swimming in relief that the potential threats were now incapacitated, and shame that he’d failed to guard his father’s back as Dad had ordered him to. He deserved no meal for a month and endless chores for that time for this! He wouldn’t be surprised if Dad caned, belted or spanked him severely for this, for that matter. But his fate would be much more horrible if the red light had impacted Dad’s back, armoured though it was. Red light meant “kill,” and his new father could be _killed_ by that beam of red light sent by the old man!

 

He glowered at the bodies strewn on the snow-layered street, which were twitching feebly under the orange light of the street lamps. He paid double the deal on the second sweep of his not-so-good night sight to the pool of garish robe covering the taller body. He’d make sure they, especially the elderly man, wouldn’t be able to hurt Dad or him till they were far, far away from here.

 

So, slowly and cautiously, he raised his head a little above the wall of snow he’d made and looked at all directions including above. Then, when he’d spotted nobody about the street or houseyards as far as his sight could see, not even a peek of light from behind curtained windows, neither on the black starry sky above, he folded and stuffed Dad’s pack into his own, and shouldered his own no-longer-so-saggy little pack. He’d see what he could glean from those intruders, took the strange weapon sticks, then stun them for his father.

 

And then, he would face his due.


	11. An Egregious Encounter, Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Closure, in more ways than two.

**21st December 1988**

 

26.

 

Kad stared into the downed woman’s anguished, disbelieving grey eyes, with yet another lurch in his heart, matching the roiling sensation in his stomach perfectly, as the wiff of burnt flesh and garment reached his nostrils from among the sharp, cold, wet air. This was a mistake, yet another mistake that he’d have to tell Dad later on: He should’ve stunned the woman first, so she wouldn’t see him and he wouldn’t see her, so she wouldn’t suffer from the four bigger and smaller deep burns on her hands and feet.

 

Burns that looked far, _far_ worse on human flesh than on pieces of greenery.

 

Burns that his _father_ had caused – rather unprompted, in this woman’s case.

 

“I’m sorry,” he whispered to her in a croak, as his eyes welled up with tears of horror and fear – fear of _his father_ , fear at the choice he’d taken before knowing the man better.

 

But oddly, miraculously, the anguish in the woman’s eyes lightened up, and she croaked back, “Harry?”

 

He recoiled, looking away, clenching his fists, as a frisson of chill ran up and down his back, demolishing his new fear of his father almost entirely in one swipe. _Harry_. How did she know his supposed name, the name that he’d known just _last year_ , after spending his life as Boy and Freak?

 

Their eyes met again, but this time he had no tears to offer her, nor horror at her plight. “How do you know my name?” he whispered in more of a croak than before, struggling to force his voice out past the lump in his throat.

 

The woman’s eyes widened in incongruous, undeserved shock. Kad didn’t know – and didn’t care for now – if she was surprised by whatever held in his gaze, or whatever she was thinking. He did shift away, though, so as not to present his back fully to the downed elderly man nearby, while straining his senses to pick up the slightest sign of movement all round. – He could barely believe it, that Dudley’s ambushes had prepared him for this eventuality, but he was thankful for the unwanted, unwitting bit of training nonetheless.

 

And then she said, in the same breathy, pain-filled whisper, which now shook a little, “You look like your father, but your eyes are your mother’s.”

 

Like a stretched rubber band let back into place, all his senses snapped back at her instantaneously, as he jerked away as if punched, with his hood slipping down his bike helmet.

 

He saw a corresponding flinch in her grief-stricken eyes. But he could care less about it, as his heart felt like it was about to burst, pulled apart in three directions by the acute feelings of loss, longing and anger.

 

He would have gladly welcomed this information even just three days ago, before Jango Fett had been moved by whatever reason or feeling into claiming a skin-and-bone, cold, wet unknown boy in rags as _his son_ , as nobody had ever done so before, or shown him even a modicum of sincere human care. Aunt Tuney had slapped him and locked him when he’d been five for asking the names of his mother and father, and he’d known that his birth mother had been Aunt Tuney’s sister _only_ from eavesdropping on the family dinners with Aunt Marge, which he had never been invited in. And now this stranger, this intruder, who had never been here even once before, just said _that_ to him, in a matter-of-fact manner that hinted at at least an acquaintanceship level with his birth parents.

 

He told her just so, in a voice shakier than hers had been, disregarding the crawling sensation at the nape of his neck that informed him the elderly man was eavesdropping. And then, right before the blue light from his little pistol struck her chest, he whispered, almost too quiet to hear even by his own ears, with all the emotions that had been rending him apart, “I’m not that boy.”

 

27.

 

Albus Dumbledore had never thought or imagined that a Muggle would match him, let alone best him, and he’d indeed never detected any magic in the person in the strange armour who’d struck him with those burning red lights. In his youth, he’d agreed with Gellert that Muggles were weaker than the magical folks, and he still believed that Muggles needed protecting. But, to be defeated by a _Muggle_ –!

 

Worse yet, now an angry gaze, blazing out from a pair of familiar almond-shaped, vivid-green eyes, set in yet another familiar face made much younger, pinned him to the cold, snowy ground faster than the wounds on his limbs did.

 

“Harry,” he tried, as he sought to peek into the thoughts behind those eyes, turning old far before their time, both emptier and bitterer also than he’d ever guessed after seven years living with Lily’s sister. – A small, dingy cupboard with signs of long habitation, Lily’s sister’s face set in loathing scorn, her husband’s angry and hateful bellow of “Freak!”, her child’s malicious glee and fake sob of “It’s the freak, Muuum”…

 

The boy quirked a bitter, hollow smile, starkly alien on the face of a child, let alone that bore a great resemblance to James’. “My name is Kad,” he said softly.

 

Harry’s voice, the piping voice of a young child, carried the weight of terrible experiences or knowledge far beyond his short years, and Albus shuddered hard, despite the warming runes sewn onto the linings of his robe. What had he done? He’d known that the boy’s life would be loveless here; but at least the boy would be safe from his adorers and haters alike. This environment would also teach Harry how to be humble, how to cherish the world he would be brought into when he was eleven years old, how to persist through hardships tempered with the friendships he would be forging at Hogwarts later on.

 

Albus’ plans had backfired on him, it seemed, like a malfunctioning wand in the midst of casting a lethal spell. But no, he couldn’t let this stand. Harry was their saviour, their icon, the person spoken in the prophecy that would lead the whole Wizarding World to triumph over Lord Voldemort.

 

“Harry,” he tried again. But Lily’s eyes set in James’ face blazed brighter and glazed hard with anger, disgust and growing hatred from under a white helmet whose colour and vague shape reminded Albus unpleasantly of the Muggle who had struck him down, and the sheer intensity of the glare robbed him off breath and words. Fear began to creep into his mind now. – Had he just created an _equal_ for Voldemort, in the sense that they were _equally_ dark, bitter and hateful?

 

“Harry,” he pleaded now. “James and Lily – your parents – picked that name for you. They would be quite disappointed if–“

 

“I’m not that boy,” Harry whispered in the same hollow, bitter young voice made old, like he had said to Minerva before she’d ceased talking and moving. And then there was a sharp, whining noise from near the boy, the tang of something Albus had rarely smelled before, a blue glow reflected on the boy’s white helmet, and something punched Albus’ chest _hard_ , harder than a stunner jinx but with the same effect.

 

Terror and panic coursed through Albus as quickly as the odd stunner did, as his tie with the Elder Wand unravelled. No, he must win the wand’s allegiance back! He couldn’t let _yet another_ self-titled dark lord wreak havoc on the world at large!

 

This stunner seemed to be more potant than Stupify, however, and Albus found himself sinking fast into unconsciousness despite his best efforts.

 

The last sensations that he registered were the Elder Wand being tugged away swiftly from his nerveless hand, small hands rummaging in his pockets, and cold snowflakes falling on his face as though the sky was weeping along with him.


	12. An Egregious Encounter, Part 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Dursleys vs reality: Who will win?

**21st December 1988**

 

28.

 

All three members of the Dursley family were seated on their sofa, arrayed with their wrists and ankles bound in bits of rope, as if a peculiar showcase for slave buyers. And truly, by now Jango was tempted to sell them into slavery, to let them know in a tangible way of how horribly they had treated their own fourth family member thus far, before he had come into the picture.

 

Because now he had seen the evidence, in the lack of pictures of Kad all inside the house, in the lack of a second child’s habitation in the two spare bedrooms, and – even more starkly – in the _cupboard_ underneath the stairs, which bore the signs of a child’s habitation that had been lacking in those spare bedrooms. And the confession of the three Dursleys, which he had wrestled out of them as if tearing teeth out of a Gundark or a Rancor, had provided some more missing details of yet a bleaker – if hidden – picture: the game Harry Hunting the obese Dursley child played with his friends with Kad as the sporting bait to be beaten on capture, the starvation and long cupboard imprisonment the Dursley parents punished Kad with for all “freaky things” including getting better marks at school than their child, the _adult_ chores the parents set on Kad and not their own child, the child’s gleeful confession that he liked to mess up those chores so “the freak” would get yelled at and punished and double the work…

 

And then, there was the worrysome new facet of Kad that he had just managed to pry off Petunia Dursley, after he had nicked some blood from Vernon Dursley’s neck for her silence, with an exaggerated motion that she couldn’t mistake but from the place that is not readily visible to her and her son: Kad had some “freaky power,” like his birth parents James Potter and Lily Evans; powers that could kill, rob free will, confound the mind, alter – or even _conjure_ – materials, create illusions, travel from one place to the next instantaneously, and so many others that she didn’t know and didn’t want to know.

 

Those powers had only been scattered myths to him, for the most part. And yet, he had no reason to believe that Petunia Dursley would lie to him, as she seemed truly fearful of her husband’s life and welfare.

 

Pity, that the love had never extended to her sister’s son, who was actually of her blood.

 

He could give her and her husband some leeway, of course, owing to her bitter tale of how a one-year-old Kad had been dropped on her doorstep in the middle of an early winter’s night seven years ago, laid on the floor and wrapped in _only_ a baby blanket, accompanied _only_ by a short letter asking for the family to care for the boy till he was of age, which had also informed her how the boy’s parents – one of whom had been _her sister_ – had perished the day before. – There would also be a reckoning for the parties involved on that particular night, should he get his hands on them, awesome unbelievable powers or no.

 

He could excuse them – _all_ of them, including whom she dubbed “the wizardfolk.” And yet he would not.

 

They’d got their chance these seven years, and they had squandered it.

 

He would deal with those alleged powers later, when he needed to or when he could, whichever came first. Now, though, he could deal out some vengeance for Kad’s sake, for the years of castigations and severe punishments the boy ought not have endured in his short life for something he couldn’t help.

 

29.

 

Dudley Dursley wasn’t someone the school-nerds and those stuffy teachers would call “bright,” at least not when in front of his parents. Personally, he thought he was bright, to avoid un-fun things. He liked cool gadgets, cool actions, cool friends – cool everythings, basically.

 

And now, he added “cool apparel” to the specific litany of coolness. Mum and Dad were terrified of the robot – a true, living _robot_! – or maybe with the big, sharp-looking knife and the glossy blue-and-grey gun-like weapon the male-sounding thing bore against them, but Dudley wasn’t. Because he liked the cool-looking robot, he’d answered the thing’s questions, though Mum and Dad sent him terrified glares for that for once in his life.

 

But he had to admit to himself, he’d done it not only because he liked the robot. He hoped the robot would give him something like what it’s wearing, for his good behaviour. He’d demand extra, too, for being tied up hands and feet and unable to move from in between Mum and Dad for so long, and for missing watching both the football game _and_ the telly series Humberto the Great, like Dad always taught him to for when dealing with people. After all, Mum and Dad always gave him things when he behaved, Aunt Marge too, and he could always throw some fake or real tantrum if the resulting gifts didn’t match his desire; what would be different with this one?

 

He opened his mouth, when the robot stopped interrogating Mum and Dad and just stood in front of them for ages – in such a cool stance that he wanted to imitate it right away, no less. But before he could put forth his demands, a small somebody – smaller and thinner than Dudley himself was, despite the somebody’s somewhat bulky winter attire – suddenly appeared from the hallway that led to the stairs, the freak’s cupboard and the front door, so silently as if he’s a ghost popping up out of the floor. The small somebody then strode quickly towards the robot on silent booted feet, turned round once both of them were in line, and faced the Dursleys together, with the smaller, slimmer version of the robot’s bulky pistol, done in white and grey, brandished uncertainly in one hand. And Dudley knew, then, who the small somebody was, likely just as Mum and Dad realised, judging from their incredulous gasps, followed by the shriek – Mum’s – and roar – Dad’s – of “ _YOU_!!!”

 

Indeed, it was the freak.

 

But now, the freak was nearly unrecognisable from the tiny stick in rags Dudly so loved to tease, whom he and his friends loved to chase round the school and the greater neighbourhood of Little Whinging these couple of years. The thin face and green eyes were the same, he supposed; but even so, something was also different in those familiar features, especially the light in those green eyes – the eyes of Dudley’s Aunt Lily, or so Mum had said quite grudgingly a long time ago, when he’d asked why the freak hadn’t looked like any of them.

 

It was the more confident stance the freak adopted now, Dudley decided, as the freak hadn’t cowered from Mum’s and Dad’s shouts earlier, and hadn’t sought to defend himself or hide behind the robot either. The more obvious changes would be the new-looking, nice-looking winter apparel, and the equally-new pack on the freak’s back, plus the bike helmet perched on the freak’s head, equipped with a pair of some kind of disks – one by his ear and one near his lips – as if he’s imitating some coolness from the robot’s get-up.

 

Dudley grinned at the last thought. Now he knew what he’d ask from the robot as payment for his good behaviour.

 

He’d ask for the freak’s winter apparel and helmet plus its gadgetry!

 

It’s even more perfect the longer he thought about it, since, however it had come to be, the freak seemed to know the robot and liked it very much; he always liked getting the freak away from potential friends, and watched the funny look of surprise and hurt and defeat on the freak’s face, which confirmed to him that he was still the best and foremost child both at home and at school. Those two, just like Mum and Dad after their respective one-word outbursts, were also silent: perfect chance for him to make his voice heard. And, by all means, he was going to make his voice heard this time; it’s not fair that the freak seemed to be colour-coordinated with the robot, and even wore the no-doubt modified bike helmet – it’s too cool for freaks like Harry!

 

So he opened his mouth again, and demanded in his most insistant voice that usually made Mum comply almost instantly and Dad pat his back in delight: “Robot! I want the freak’s clothes and helmet and gun!” And just so he was made even clearer, he locked eyes with the freak, gave the freak a smug smile with his eyes, and nodded at the white bike helmet on the freak’s head, which should have looked silly indoors like this but instead seemed inexplicably _cool_ – and Dudley loved all things _cool_.

 

Oddly, though, Mum and Dad squeaked like a pair of mice, as if hugely terrified. And odder, unlike before, the freak wasn’t wary or even afraid, faced with his look and demand.

 

In fact, Dudley had to look away, because of the sheer pain and loathing and _fury_ contained in those green eyes formerly so familiar, and the silent snarl curling the lips set beneath them.

 

But the oddest of all was the sense of loss he was feeling, as those green eyes seemed to return to him all the years he’d teased and gotten people away from the freak.

 

It’s as if, in his own freaky style, the freak was saying good-bye and good riddance.

 

The presence of the pack on the freak’s back didn’t help matters.

 

But the freak was his closest life constant, other than Mum and Dad! The freak couldn’t go _anywhere_ – he wouldn’t allow it!

 

He opened his mouth for the third time in the freak’s presence. He wanted to urge Mum and Dad to say something, to put the freak in his place and keep the freak with them. He wanted to shove the freak back into his cupboard and lock it and hide the key so the freak couldn’t go anywhere. He wanted to get the robot away from the freak, in case it’s going to carry the freak away out of his life, possibly for ever and ever.

 

But what he could manage was only a whimper, a sob he couldn’t entirely stifle, and tears he couldn’t entirely hold back from pooling in his eyes.

 

“Dudders?” Dad squawked, alarmed, as the tears leaked little by little, then burst their dam. – For once, Dudley was ashamed of crying. But he’d had no experience trying to hold it back, and so he’d failed. It was usually his weapon of choice when among adults, that’s why, and he could teach any other child who mocked him about it not to do it any longer; but not now, not with this child, not anymore it seemed, and it just made the loss greater and keener.

 

No adult could help him, or _would_ help him; he knew, somehow.

 

But still, Mum and Dad tried.

 

“Diddykins?” Mum whispered frantically, trying to wipe his tears away from his cheeks with her bound-together hands, just as, after some heavy snorting breaths, Dad roared, “YOU!!!” at the freak, and launched himself with a jerk and a heave out of the sofa with his bound-together hands outstretched in a claw-like position towards the freak.

 

Everything happened at once.

 

The freak stepped back at last, looking alarmed for once in this surreal encounter. The robot swooped forward instead, with an agility that Dudley himself didn’t possess, let alone a mass of plates and wires. It swung its bulky pistol by the barrel in a small arc, and “Crack!” the butt went at Dad’s temple just as Dad tottered forward on bound legs that wouldn’t support or obey him… And down Dad went, with a thud that shook his body and trembled the floor, as Mum screamed and covered her mouth and shrank into the sofa as far as she could, and Dudley himself flinched in sympathy to Dad and newfound fear at the robot, forgetting his tears in an instant.

 

But somehow, he felt more afraid of the robot, when the latter heaved Dad up from the floor _with one hand_ , accompanied _just_ by a harsh yank and an electronic growl.

 

And he couldn’t put his finger on why he felt envious, too, when the robot then said to the freak in his cool electronic voice, in a cool unperturbed tone that nonetheless oozed with cool un-squishy affection, “Check upstairs, Kad. Your mother’s things may be there. Search carefully, then we go.”

 

He was _definitely_ envious, though, and _knew_ why so, when the freak piped up in a voice far chipperer than when Mum _and_ Dad had yelled at him _and_ tried to get at him: “Yes, Dad.”

 

And when he was envious at something or someone, he confronted the problem dead-on.

 

“But your dad’s dead! And your name’s not Kad!”

 

It was his time to shrink as far as he could into the groaning sofa, when the freak returned his stare with a flat, filthy look, then walked away back where the midget had come from calm as you please as if nothing had happened.

 

The urge to hold the midget – his _cousin_ , his own – back returned with a vengeance when the latter vanished from view. “Hey! Come back, Freak!” he hollered wretchedly. Then, when the said freak didn’t return even after a long moment had passed, he amended, “Come back, Harry!”

 

The freak liked “Harry” more than “Freak, didn’t he? So why didn’t he return?

 

“Mum! Dad! Make Harry come baaaack!”

 

But too late, he’d just remembered that his father was now draped dazedly beside him, staring blearily at nothing in particular, with a purpling bruise on his temple. And his mother was no help, either, cowering on his other side, still covering her mouth and whimpering softly every so often, now staring at the robot as though it were a ghost rising up from the floor in front of her.

 

But he supposed, she had the right for it. The freak’s dad ought to have been dead, no? And here the dad was, a _robot_. How cool it was.

 

Still, “You’re never here before!” he demanded at the robot in his sternest tone. Dad had always complained about the cost of sheltering the freak, Mum too, and Dudley had always managed to mollify them by pointing out that the freak was a good playmate, a ready punchbag, and lately also a walking solution for his schoolwork. And now the freak’s dad came only to hurt Dudley’s own mum and dad without any money given for the costs they had always mentioned, and he’s about to rob Dudley off his midget too. Dudley wouldn’t let him do it without a fight! He would–

 

“I am not his father in meat.”

 

–` _Huh?…_ ` Dudley gawked uncomprehendingly. ` _His father in… meat?…_ ` It sounded wrong; both the words and the meaning were. “You’re not his real father?” he whispered, taken aback. It seemed his mum was equally surprised, because her stare had changed, and her hand had fallen from her gaping mouth.

 

The robot shook its head in a small but quick motion. – Dudley still marvelled at the human gesture imitated so perfectly in this particular robot, more awesome than in even the best films and telly shows he’d ever watched. – But then it corrected him, in a cold, assured tone that Dudley believed he couldn’t ever match, and made him long for a similar cool, hard-as-stone acclamation to his own existence: “Kad is my child. I take him as my child. I am his father.”

 

An inexplicable sense of disappointment and deep sadness bathed his heart at that instant, also, squeezing his chest mercilessly. ` _The freak still doesn’t have a father,_ ` he thought. ` _Nothing’s changed. The robot isn’t his father, though they claim it so._ `

 

But it’s good, wasn’t it? Then the robot didn’t have the right to remove the freak from home – _this_ home, the only home that they both knew? The robot could even live here! Then Dudley would have a _cool_ playmate, a cool collection to show of to Pierce and Malcom and Gordon and dennis, too. He would–

 

“Eep!”

 

The robot’s metal-and-leather-gloved hand, which had born the odd gun, was now tugging semi gently at his bound wrists by the rope, catching him off guard and hurting him a little.

 

Swaying like a tree in the storm, Dudley staggered forward, dragged by the robot away from the sofa.

 

And then, he noticed that he could _walk_. For some reason, though the robot didn’t seem to have untied his parents, it had untied _his ankles_ and leading him…

 

…Where?

 

“Umm, Mister Robot,” he began, as they made their way into the short hallway that led to the stairs, the cupboard and the front door; but the robot’s hand squeezed _hard_ on his left hand that it’d just gripped, and he squeaked into a tense silence.

 

He didn’t have to wait long, at any rate. By the closed front door, he saw the freak standing a little uncertainly, with the latter’s pack unchanged in volume, but with a second, much larger pack draped from his left, non-weapon-bearing hand. And then, as the robot let go of him and swooped down to take the latter pack from the freak’s hand, it ordered him, “You have ten minutes top to talk. You hurt Kad, I hurt you, no matter you child.”

 

It was both the easiest and the hardest order, the most desirable and the most hated thing, that Dudley had faced to date.

 

But for once, he didn’t complain, and not for the remembrance of the big weapons and the over-strong grip the robot possessed, either, as the dreaded, impending feeling of loss propelled him forward and compelled him to open his mouth. He didn’t pay attention, not so much anyhow, when the robot silently climbed upstairs on its big, heavy-looking boots and began to rummage in the bedrooms.

 

This was the first time the two boys tried to talk as cousins.


	13. An Inquisitive Inquisition

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The showdown of Severus Snape: Blaster or blaster?

**21st December 1988**

 

30.

 

A day and a night of stewing in past regrets and past decisions had felt like a century. Severus had tendered his resignation as head of the Slytherin House and master of the Potions class, the owl that he’d rented from Diagon Alley Post Office for this very purpose must have arrived at Hogwarts by now, and he had also packed all his belongings from spinner’s End into a seven-compartment trunk, which he had then shrunk and pocketed, ready for a move out of Great Britain. There was but one thing he’s left to do now, and he meant to do it tonight, before he took the Portkey back to Myanmar, to hopefully catch up with the last day of his interrupted potions conference.

 

He must know, even if he could do nothing about it, even if the action and resulting knowledge would never assuage his guilt, his anger, his regrets.

 

He must know, what had Petunia Evans done to Lily’s boy, and what the said boy was like now, after seven years under the not-so-tender mercy of the shrew.

 

So he went to the last known location of Lily’s sister.

 

But checking where the boy was would be prudent, right? Who knew if he could kill two birds with one spell?

 

It had necessitated a stealthy break-in into the Headmaster’s office, which had thankfully been empty of both the old manipulator and his phoenix. Thanks to his Occlumency skills, which had boosted his memory recall, he still had remembered the particular little gadget the wrinkled geezer had tapped to produce Lily’s boy’s status and location, and acquired the said information the same way.

 

The status slots were all unchanged. He’d seen it for himself, and pocketed the parchment so that the Headmaster would hopefully not find out what he’d done.

 

It had listed “ **Street before Privet Drive Number Four**.”

 

And Petunia Evans now lived on Privet Drive Number Four, last he’d heard near the end of the wizzarding war with the Dark Lord.

 

What an opportunity.

 

However, years of bitter experience, especially the ones surrounding his personal downfall and that of the Dark Lord, had taught him to treat everything seriously, expect the worst, and sometimes hope for the best. Thus he approached the neighbourhood on Privet Drive, in the town of Little Whinging in Surrey, the latest known location of Lily’s boy and sister both, with casual but quiet steps and alert senses, adding a disillusionment, scent erasing and sound erasing charms for good measure.

 

He couldn’t get closer, and flying would take the concentration he’d need to spot dangers and take actions. Therefore, he had to content himself with watching from a small distance under the sparse street lamps, and also the modified Lumos that he’d created himself years ago, which would shine on the area for him and not for others.

 

And under the soft mingled glow, he finally _saw_ what he’d at first mistaken as thicker lumps of snow on the middle of the deserted street.

 

Bodies. Tall bodies swathed in snow.

 

Tall bodies garbed in familiar robes, one tartan and the other eye-wateringly garish.

 

Despite his constant irritation with the owner of the bodies, his heart clenched on witnessing this morbid scene.

 

It was unnatural.

 

Minerva McGonagall the stern, always prim and proper even when a bout of flu had hit her, should be standing or sitting nearby, ready to berate him for his desertion of Hogwarts right at the moment she recognised him from amidst the gloom.

 

Albus Dumbledore the powerful, the only person the Dark Lord feared, should be welcoming him even now with the affable grandfatherly air he projected to everyone, as if nothing had transpired between them.

 

They should not be laid out on the street, forlorn and neglected, like unidentified corpses from a natural disaster.

 

A nonverbal Hom Num Revelio told him, to his relief, that they were still alive. A swipe of artificial wind and a levitation charm later, they were deposited side by side beside him, sheltered slightly by the low wall that served as Privet Drive Number Four’s fenceline.

 

Before he could induce them magically to wake up, however, he heard a commotion behind the front door of the house he was watching, loud in the still, cold, snowy night.

 

A brat yelling something, then howling disconsolately.

 

“Harry! Don’t go, Harry! You can have my second bedroom; just don’t go! I’ll tell Pierce and Dennis and Gordon and Malcom; we won’t play that game again. Please, Harry.”

 

His ears perked up; and almost instinctively, he snuck closer to the front door of Privet Drive Number Four, gliding himself a few centimetres above the snow on the house’s yard.

 

The response – one part angry, one part sad, one part regretful – which piped up a quarter as strongly as the barrage of whinging, braying pleas before caused him to lose his concentration and the tendril of magic that kept him away from the ground, sending him into an undignified heap on the snow-mounded gravel.

 

“This isn’t my home, Dud. I have a dad now. My home’s with him.”

 

Harry – Lily’s boy had been named Harry according to the Headmaster and practically everyone in the Wizarding World in Great Britain – but his parents were long _dead_! Lily wasn’t coming back, and Potter had better _never_ come back; and yet the boy had mentioned about his _father_ , with such conviction no less!

 

Still reeling, Severus scrambled hastily up to his feet as the front door jerked open.

 

He was just in time to evade a streak of red light, smelling like ozone and burning the night air with thrumming heat, which passed barely a hair’s breadth away from his right temple.

 

He couldn’t see well who or what was attacking him. He was too busy frantically dodging and ducking from the barrage of red lights. He couldn’t even risk getting out his wand yet, as there wasn’t the briefest lull in the hail for him to do so, let alone to retaliate. And he couldn’t afford to be hit by either of those blinding streaks, too, _not at all_ , with how the tang of scorched things had begun to permeate the cold air, which had previously just smelled clean and wet.

 

These streaks of red light were not the light beams resulting from a Stupify, that much he knew.

 

The many Cruciatus sessions he’d endured under the merciless wand of the Dark Lord were proving their detrimental impact on his constitution now, as his muscles and joints protested violently, while he was forced to retreat under the assault of the blinding light and scorching heat.

 

To his dismay and despair, the hail thickened the closer he was to the front border of Privet Drive Number Four, instead of lessening. And when a human with magic was desperate…

 

Something heavy and powerful coiled in his chest, then surged to all particles of his being; a déjà vu from all those years ago, when his best friend and love had still been alive, when magical education had still been a pleasant dream to cherish. – ` _I **need** to get out of this, **safely**. Lily’s boy is in danger. I must get to him, but not now._ `

 

And pop he went, Apparating without the definite destination adults like he was should always have in mind. A clear barrier of the magic he had subconsciously summoned without a wand safeguarded his retreat, and many of the harmful red beams splashed against it, buckling it severely, last he saw, before his sight blackened and his eyes felt like being squished into his skull alongside other parts of his body.

 

He never realised where he landed. Oblivion took him before he could truly register any surface under his boots.


	14. A Frightening Flashback

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Being the son of a fearsome father is really, truly _not_ easy.

**21st December 1988**

 

31.

 

The pleasantly cool interior of the car – no, _jeep_ , Dad had said yesterday afternoon, when they’d been discussing about it – was as silent as what Kad imagined a graveyard at night would be. There were only the sounds of the car’s operation – the pedals, the gear-stick, the wheels beneath them – and nothing else.

 

Unlike several times before, even in the aftermath of the not-so-pleasant meeting with the bobbies from… huh, had it been two days ago?… Well, unlike that time, however tense Dad had been then, now was times and times _worse_.

 

Seated in his modified car-seat on the front passenger seat beside Dad, Kad daren’t even move, or breathe freely, or let out any other sound, or steal too many glances at Dad, as they sped away through streets and roads, sometimes accompanied by just a few other cars or even none. Dad seemed quite tense, and not because of the blue-grey-white metal plates and helmet and weapons he’s still wearing.

 

Kad himself felt quite uncomfortable with what had happened, with how they had parted with Privet Drive Number Four: with Dudley’s wailing and trying to grab him, with the encounter with the third intruder – who’d _vanished_ afterwards – and Dad’s violent response to it, with the scorched marks everywhere – even on the neighbour across the street’s walls. But, as it had also been his lot while living with the Dursleys, he suffered through it in stoic silence, as his hands restlessly toyed with the winter coat he’d shed before tucking himself into the car-seat.

 

Still, nobody – not even he – could put a hold on the questions and wonderings of his mind. His only consolation was that the said fretful thoughts were safe and undetected within the confines of his head. And with that firmly in mind, he let the last moments of his life in Privet Drive Number Four played again and again before his mind’s eye, distorting the view of the deserted,, snow-powdered car lanes beyond the windshield.

 

Dudley’s wretched please, more genuine than most of his demands for treats and gifts from his parents, were still ringing in his ears, as was the physical sensation of the pudgy hands wrapped round his bony wintercloak-covered arm, not to hurt but to hold him back.

 

Like _cousins_.

 

Like _proper_ cousins.

 

Sad, that this peculiar – and peculiarly cherished – memory was tainted with what had transpired afterwards, as Dad’s hand had tugged at his other arm gently, and they’d come out to the alarming scene of an unknown man in black robe dusting himself off on the driveway on the frontyard. Dudley’d even gone silent, when, without any warning to the intruder and with all alacrity, Dad had hefted up a bulky gun from his various arsenal hanging about him and _fired_.

 

It’d been the most ruthless action yet that Kad had ever seen from Jango Fett, who had been his father for just nearly three days. There had been a vicious ferocity in that unprompted attack, a sense of assurance – of _intent_ – for somebody else’s demise, and it had settled on his tongue like the vinegar he’d been forced to mouth and swallow as punishment by Aunt Tuney several months ago for what she’d accused as badmouthing her.

 

Even Dudley, who’d often shown pleasure in malicious pranks and harmful pastimes like throwing stones at people’s car windows, had shrunk away in total fright, as the horizontal rain of red beams had spewed forth from the two big guns Kad’s father had drawn by then. The view had been mostly blocked by the bulky hunk of the armour-clad, weapon-laden figure, as the two boys had cowered behind him in the hallway that also contained Kad’s cupboard; but still, the outline of the black-robed man’s desperate feats of gymnastics on the driveway, trying to evade jabs of those scorching lights, had been as starkly horrifying as the brief glimpse Kad had seen from the Animal Planet channel Dudley had watched one afternoon, when a bunch of coyotes had eaten a struggling, screaming deer _alive_.

 

But now, the prey had been a _human_ , and so had the predator.

 

And the _human_ predator had been _kad’s own father_.

 

Not even Dudley had managed the avid interest for this particular scene, as that cousin of his had mustered for that snippet of animal cruelty that afternoon.

 

And then, when all the light beams had suddenly splashed onto an invisible barrier before the black-robed man, and the black-robed man himself had vanished into thin air with a deafening cracking sound, Jango Fett had brusquely shrugged the larger pack on his back behind the vaguely-cylindrical thing that he’d explained to Kad yesterday was for flying. After tucking one of his big gun back at his side, he’d then hoisted Kad into his arms, the smaller pack – bulging with loot, it seemed – and all, and the front door of Privet Drive Number Four had closed with a final-sounding thump in front of Dudley’s wide-eyed, palid countenance.

 

Kad supposed he ought to have felt quite safe and cherished, riding in his father’s arms after such awesome display of strength, intention and capability; and even then, Dad had still been guarding him jealously and fearsomely, with the remaining big gun set parallel to his body, quite easily within his reach should he have wished to touch it.

 

But he hadn’t felt so, nor did he now.

Because he had no doubt, that, should any – or, if worse came to worst, _all_ – the scorching beams reach the black-robed man and kill the said man on his feet, Jango Fett would have left the remaining charred husk just so on the driveway, as if he’d only splatted an annoying fly against the wall.

 

And he was supposed to be Kad’s _father_.

 

What would he do, then, should Kad somehow incite _that_ level of annoyance in him?

 

Kad daren’t imagine; not now that the subject of rumination was barely an arms length away, also when the incident that had sparked the morbid thoughts had passed less than fifteen minutes ago.

 

And then, his body betrayed him.

 

The gurgling grumble of his stomach was _very, very loud_ in the tense silence  surrounding the pair.

 

He cringed, barely holding back a squeak – something that would _definitely_ make his new guardian angry, he suspected. He’d been trying _not_ to attract attention on himself, and now–!

 

And true to his expectation, right afterwards, though there’s no peep whatsoever from the direction of the impassive helmet to his right, one gauntleted, weapon-laden large hand belonging to his scary guardian reached towards the latter’s belt – where many, many things, most of them being undoubtably weapons – hung, and…

 

…Kad gawked. The thing, if it was a weapon, wasn’t thrown at him, nor did it let out any sound Kad associated with weapons that he knew thus far, when Dad manoeuvred his hands, doing something with it without letting go of the steering wheel; and in fact, it sounded suspiciously like food wrapper being manipulated.

 

The silhouette of the same smallish, rectangular, thinnish thing proffered to him afterwards reminded him very much of a half-pealed bar of chocolate that he automatically reached out a trembling hand and brought the puzzling, unlooked-for gift to his mouth.

 

But no, the thing didn’t taste like a weapon of any sort – too bland, too soft, too chewy. Unlike other kinds of food, though, two bites already served to fill his stomach to full capacity. And as if Dad knew it – or maybe Dad _does_ know it – the same large hand returned for the weird food bar after Kad had finished chewing for some time without taking more bites.

 

Kad hadn’t eaten since afternoon, Dad too, and now he did… Did this mean Dad wouldn’t harm him when Dad’s annoyed, next time? After all, Dad was mightily annoyed right now, wasn’t he? And Kad got some kind of dried food instead of a slap?

 

The boy looked up at the face of the helmet from beneath his uneven fringes, wishing he could see his father’s true face hiding behind it. A second later his stolen gaze dropped onto his father’s lap, as sleepiness began to permeate his being, slowly but surely, after the fulfilling simple meal and the indirect reassurance that the man wasn’t going to harm him like he’d done the others.

 

How surprised he was, that, just as he was thinking about the best position to nap, the same food-bearing hand, now empty, unstrapped him from his car-seat and ushered him onto the broad, armour-clad lap he’d subconsciously coveted. He hadn’t said anything about this! Had Dad read his mind? But the man hadn’t shown any sign of it before…

 

Kad snuggled in his new perch as best as he could, watching avidly as Dad moved the steering wheel with one hand, manipulated the gear-stick with the other, and stepped on the pedals with either foot, all with confidence, although the tense set of his posture seemed to belie his little familiarity with it. Armour plates, weapon tips and sides and large powerful hands flickered and glowed briefly from the reflection of roadlights, the lamps of the few passing vehicles, and their own front-lamps reflected on the frozen surface of the road; and to Kad, they contained a harsh, alien beauty of their own.

 

He could not deny the warm pleasure, too, that, seated there within the protection of Dad’s powerful arms and the latter’s highly efficient weapons, he felt like a cherished king; maybe like Dudley when with his parents, or maybe even more, seeing that he had no wish to stoop as low as Dudley with the latter’s whiny demands and idle approach to life.

 

Dad might be a hungry or vengeful beast when roused, but he’s _Kad’s_ ; and for better or for worse Kad was his, too, as the memory of his adoption flitted past his mind once more.

 

An adoptive parent could not sever the bond. Only the adoptive child could.

 

Kad _could_ sever the bond, then; but the notion was as loathsome to his meagre experience as the idea of being left alone and lonely in the cupboard under the stairs at Privet Drive Number Four forever.

 

Well, then, he just needed to do the best he could to accept his new father as the latter was, right? Nobody could choose his or her family, his relatives had often grumbled about that in his hearing, whether in full or eavesdropped. But at least, he could _choose_ to love whatever family he had now with no reservation, now that the Dursleys had severed ties with him, right?

 

He was tired of being afraid of his own guardian, anyway.

 

Well, with his fears banished for a time and with his belly full, the prospect seemed so bright.


	15. TheNotoriaty of Knowledge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Knowledge can build and destroy many things, chief of which is a perfectly good morning.

**22nd December 1988**

 

32.

 

“Dad?”

 

“Hmm?”

 

Kad tentatively snuggled deeper into his father’s embrace, as they lay under the warm duvet of yet another bed in yet another hotel, this time in Blackpool. The night had passed uneventfully, and in fact Kad could remember little of it. He’d managed to coax Dad out of armour, and Dad had managed to coax him into the latter’s arms when sleeping, and that’s all. It hadn’t been a dreamless slumber, he’d rarely had such instance, but the warmth of another, larger body shared with him, as alien as it had been – that it was, still – had been a reassuring presence against the seeming recollection of green rumbling lights, cruel high-pitched laughter, and a woman’s desperate scream.

 

Now, though, that the cobwebs of sleep was retreating fast from his mind, he remembered something that he’d meant to tell his father in their trip in search of this hotel last night, after Dad had thawed down a little bit from confronting the Dursleys and all those weird, antagonistic people in robes.

 

“I told Dudley we’re going to Blackpool.”

 

And just that, the peace of the content, silent morning was broken irreparably.

 

Cursing lowly in a language Kad didn’t know, Dad threw himself away from Kad and off the bed in an instant, as harshly and urgently as the man had picked him up and born him away from the porch of Privet Drive Number Four last night. And, in less than ten minutes, the said man was once more armoured and armed, and now bundling Kad back into the boy’s _outdoor_ winter gear, with Kad’s own little pistol lying on the edge of the bed in its holster, ready to be clipped to the colourful child-sized belt Dad had bought him yesterday with an unhappy mutter.

 

But what was the urgency for? Dudley had been genuinely curious when asking about Kad’s next destination, that much he’d known, so he’d answered the other boy truthfully. There’s no harm in it, right? So why was Dad so upset and fussy? Kad had enjoyed a quiet morning of companionable leisure for once, before he’d opened his stupid mouth and confessed that.

 

When Dad _swept the bathroom thoroughly_ before letting him in to relieve himself and wash his face before going, however, he couldn’t be silent anymore. It’s so ridiculous!

 

“Dad, I just told him, nobody else, I swear! And he’s quite forgetful too. Why must we go, anyway?”

 

It was the first time _ever_ he whinged to his new guardian, though he still daren’t refused completely. This might be quite ludicrous, and he wished he could have sampled what had been denied to him for seven years a little – no, _a lot_ – longer, but he couldn’t forget, too, what Uncle Vern had done to him years ago for whinging about being locked in the cupboard for so long.

 

However, Dad neither returned them to lounging in the hotel room, nor did he expedite their departure to heighten the discomfort mentioned in one of Kad’s complaints. Instead, once he was finished, he was once more swept into Dad’s arms and carried out of the room in a seemingly unhurried pace.

 

But _something_ told him Dad was as tense as a rubber band ready to snap, and as dangerous as a hungry beast prowling for food.

 

Visual pretence. Kad was used to that. The teachers didn’t believe him – _hadn’t_ believed him – about his living dynamics under the Dursleys’ roof, Missus Figg – his occasional sitter – of Whisteria Walk too, and the neighbours… He’d been pretending all’s fine since he’d been so small, now he realised.

 

Well, he could still – he _had to_ – pretend, no?

 

So he relaxed his posture and face, going as far as draping himself sleepily against the hard, jabby pieces populating Dad’s torso and shoulder, watching through his eyelashes as Dad checked them out of their room, dealing with a wide-eyed, nervous receptionist at the barely occupied lobby.

 

And he was rewarded, once they were settled back in their jeep, once they were moving sedately away from the hotel as if yet another vehicle carrying holiday makers out for the day.

 

The tension had bled through now. Kad supposed, the pretence time was over, since the darkened windows would make it hard to get detailed body language from outside. That also meant he got the unfiltered brunt of his father’s ire, though…

 

“Never do that again, Kad. You _sell_ information. You _not_ just _give_ information.”

 

…And, he was right. Dad didn’t shout, didn’t curse, didn’t rant, didn’t spit, didn’t hit; but his brief words drove harsh and deep, nonetheless, all layered with a thick mixture of disappointment and irritation.

 

The disappointment, it hit the most, hurt the most.

 

“Dudley Dursley can _use_ the information, _sell_ the information. About _we_. Maybe the boy have no plan to hurt, no intention to hurt; but other people can use Dudley Dursley too, to get we, to hurt we.”

 

The words weren’t eloquent; it sounded rather weird in fact; but their peculiar, alien quality didn’t diminish how efficient they were as barbed things poking into the tender places in Kad’s chest.

 

He hadn’t known! He’d just been glad that he could have talked civilly with Dudley for once. Now he’s endangering Dad and himself and possibly Dudley too, and Dad was _mad_ at _him_.

 

His eyes felt heavy, his cheeks felt wet, his body felt cold; and yet, there was no pair of familiar armour-clad, weapon-laden arms round him.

 

And above all, it hurt the most.

 

33.

 

“Come, Neville, it’s a bright day for fishing!”

 

And _that_ was what worried Neville the most…

 

Still, under the careful watch of his grandmother, he couldn’t possibly squirrel… or weasel… or maybe _eel_ himself away from the hearty not-offer of Uncle Algie.

 

A day trying to battle water-schemed attempts to draw out his magic was better than being dangled out of the Muggle hotel’s window… or being locked inside the room’s closet for the duration of their stay… or, well, _something_ , right?

 

One sweaty, trembling pudgy little hand tries _not_ to squeeze the hopefully inobtrusive bulge on his left trousers pocket, while the other fingered the small length of knife in the opposite pocket, as Neville fidgeted under the calculating gazes of his elderly relatives. ` _Calm down, Neville Longbottom. You’ve got a half-an-hour’s worth of gillyweed and a knife to defend yourself under there, if Uncle Algie’s going to drown you,_ ` his mind tried to cheer him up with a pinch of logic.

But it didn’t work.

 

How if the gillyweed, speed-grown as per the advice of Tippy’s gardening house-elf friends, had less efficacy because of the unnatural growth? Or worse, _didn’t work_?

 

How if he had no time to swallow the little rubbery ball of tentacle-like strands, before he’s tripped into the water or something like that?

 

How if he lost the knife or fumbled at it too much, when he needed it the most?

 

How if his winter clothes were too heavy for his pitiful attempts of swimming, later?

 

How if he shivered too hard to even attempt to float?

 

How if his teeth chattered too much to chew the gillyweed?

 

Tippy could have helped him! He could’ve asked her to watch over him and save him, if his little plan failed, but he _hadn’t asked her_. How stupid he was. No wonder people’d been saying that for years. He’d just been too dense to realise that… How ironic.

 

He settled into the rented sailboat feeling doomed. There was only Uncle Algie in the craft, thankfully or not; but he was definitely thankful that that great-uncle of his set sail without any more word or familial pomp from his great-aunts and grandmother waiting on the quay.

 

He was even more grateful that, as soon as he shifted on his bench, closer to the middle of the boat to avoid tempting his great-uncle with more than his mere existence and proximity in the boat, a small weight settled beside him, and an invisible hand grasp his left hand. ` _Tippy!_ `

 

The invisible hand squeezed his own visible appendage warmly.

 

Confidence stole into him, creeping through his veins, branching out from the portion of his hand linked tightly with that of his faithful friend’s.

 

He was not alone.

 

He wasn’t alone, and at least he knew what might happen next, even if he could do little to nothing about it. After all, Grannie always said “Knowledge counts,” right? Although she’d always been trying to instill more bravery on him, instead of just knowledge, despite the numerous tutors she’d been hiring for his education.

 

Well, he wasn’t feeling brave right now, nor quite knowledgeable; but _some_ knowledge did count, right? Some company too, other than his great-uncle’s – his quite probable drowner.

 

34.

 

“Mum, Dad, let’s go to Blackpool!”

 

And just so, the tension at the kitchen table melted away, like snow under the sun.

 

“Eat quick, then, Dudders. We’ll go after that.”

 

“I’ll prepare a picnic lunch, then. But Diddy, it’s winter. Are you sure you want to go there?”

 

It’s so easy to get Mum and Dad to go for a spontaneous daytrip, right now, Dudley mused. Maybe they’re still haunted by what had happened last night with the blue robot and the freak, since they still looked so tense and fearful. But it was to his advantage, no? He did want – no, he _needed_ – to go to Blackpool, to catch up with the freak – no, _Harry_ – and bring the other boy home… or maybe even go with him, wherever that runt went.

 

“It’s okay, Mum. Pierce said it’s nice too in winter.”

 

And the problem was solved, just like that.

 

Dudley shovelled his third helping of breakfast into his mouth, then shuffled off to his bedroom upstairs, following his mum. He couldn’t fit his desktop gaming consoles into his holdall, but maybe Mum could help him fit a handheld console and a few gaming cards into it. He’d need snacks too, and maybe a few toys for in case the battery’s gone and he couldn’t find a charging outlet. He might share the games and toys with the fre… erm, _Harry_ … as a bribe, or tempt the other boy to go home and share them.

 

Huh. Good idea. He might just do it… if he remembered when it came the time, that was…

 

But for now, Blackpool, here he came!


	16. The Farce of a Family

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When one's relatives are more horrible than strangers, what does that make them?

**22nd December 1988**

 

35.

 

It’d taken less than a moment.

 

In less than a moment, Neville was underwater, and sinking _fast_.

 

There’d been no warning, _whatsoever_. One moment, he’d been staring round the gloomy vista of the grey-casted sky and the far darker, far icier choppy water below; next half a moment, an invisible cocoon feeling like his great-uncle suddenly wrapped tightly round him, and Tippy let out an agonised shriek before she’d been yanked away from him.

 

And then, _this_.

 

It’s too late already to get at his gillyweed, even if he could open his mouth without swallowing more water and chewing it with his chattering teeth.

 

He kicked, bucked, grappled with the burning, numbing thick, salty thing all round him.

 

All round him, all inside him.

 

All inside him, as he breathed it in and swallowed more, in his desperation for air.

 

His eyes burnt the most, but not because they were open wide against the stinging liquid ice pressing into every millimetre of his person.

 

Tears. But tears hadn’t helped him, _never_ had, and it wouldn’t, now.

 

What was the use for tears, anyway, when there was an ocean of it round him?

 

What was the use of trying to swim, when the effort only made his laden body sink faster to the gaping darkness under his flailing feet?

 

There was no more bubble of precious, precious air to expel now, and there was no more room for the icy water he’d inadvertently inhaled in his desperation to breathe. His chest was now a thick, cold, tight band that squeezed itself ever tighter, and darkness had begun to tint his ever-upturned sight.

 

Even the glimmer of sunlight sheeting in the undulating water above him was going to be robbed from him very soon.

 

And strangely or not, it was what he regretted the most: that he was going to be denied light, even at the moment of his death.

 

His feet struck an uneven, rough surface. His legs buckled, as his head felt like it was squeezed into itself. His ears rang, and they hurt very, very much, but the agony was fading fast, so it’s no matter.

 

In fact, he wasn’t feeling so cold and squeezed in any longer. His head couldn’t look up to the light anymore, but there’s a brighter, more beautiful light dancing before his darkened eyes now.

 

And then, a more marvellous thing happened.

 

Arms. Arms round him. Strong, firm, warm arms. Safe arms towing him _up_ quickly and a little bit harshly, but filled with fear _for him_ and maybe even concern – or better, _worry_.

 

It was nice. It was sweet. He couldn’t hear, couldn’t see, nearly couldn’t feel anything anymore, but this was a good parting gift.

 

But then, somebody wanted to separate him from the marvellous arms of his saviour. Something was tugging him to the opposite direction, trying to yank him away from the warmth, the safety, the awesome worry.

 

The person was all too familiar, so was the deed.

 

 _This_ had happened shortly before.

 

But this time, he wasn’t going to let it repeat itself.

 

Somebody else agreed with him, _heartily_.

 

They’d been separated from a loved one before. They weren’t going to suffer that again.

 

` _Tippy,_ ` his mind whispered, softly, like a prayer to a divine being.

 

` _Dad,_ ` the other young entity offered.

 

` _Dad,_ ` he concurred, shily.

 

And all the while, the arms never left him, just as he never left the arms. They scrabbled to stay, they clung to each other, they remained strong in each other.

 

The restricting cocoon round him tore apart, just as both young entities mingled in mind and soul and power.

 

There was a snap, a flinging motion, an elderly man screaming.

 

And then, sweet air on solid surface kissed his skin.

 

He could feel his tears now. And the heat blading down his icy cheeks, they felt as wonderful as the large hands frantically pumping water out of his lungs, as the fearful squeak of his little best friend, as the blubbering pleas spoken by another young voice for him to be all right, as the somewhat-deep, somewhat-gravelly voice encouraging him to _fight_.

 

He had a family now.

 

He was all right.

 

36.

 

Kad wasn’t sure whether, should he be given the chance, he would be tempted to repeat what’s happening this late morning. It’d been a bunch of extremes thus far, and he didn’t know if he could weather it for much longer.

 

But for the sake of the other boy – now coughing weakly, no longer spewing forth water from his mouth and nose like fountain spouts, draped on his chest across Dad’s lap as Dad sat on his haunches – _he would_.

 

At least, however vile his relatives had been to him, and how eagerly Aunt Marge had always suggested such a treatment for him, they had never tried to drown him.

 

Dad had been more frustrated with himself than with Kad, he’d sensed it when he’d calmed down a little bit and they’d reached the waterfront some distance away from the hotel. Dad had fashioned a giant scoop – or rather, a usual water-scoop whose handle was tied fast to a length of plastic piping – for him to play with the waves from the safety of the nearest pier, after he’d been put in what Dad’d called a “harness” and connected with a rope to Dad; and then, while he’d enthusiastically tried to catch the sprays from the crest of each waves in his scoop, Dad’d spent the time just brooding – and watching him, he supposed, judging from the eerie feeling of eyes on his back. So the scolding and the expectations, they weren’t nice but neither were they cruel, and the Dursley adults had heaped lots more scoldings and expectations than Dad anyway.

 

But _then_ …

 

He hadn’t yet been tired of playing with the waves, since the waves – and in fact all aspects of this seaside holiday – were awesomely novel for him, but Dad’d gotten fidgety some time into the play and ordered him to stop. And about five minutes later, when Dad’d been instructing him how to loosened the harness and helping him some, a small bunch of elderly people and a little boy of his age had trooped by, on their way to a small sailboat moored near his previous spot of deck. ` _Awesome! Dad **knows** things before they happen plenty of time before they happen!_ ` was what he’d thought at that moment, followed by, ` _Can we have a try on the sailboat later? The ropes seem awefully aweful, but Dad’s smart, so he knows which rope to tug at one time like that old man does, right?_ `

 

Not everyone in the small bunch had boarded the sailboat. The womenfolk had moved on after seeing the lone elderly man and the young boy off. Dad had left for a moment, then, to store the makeshift toy back in the jeep, and ordered that Kad watch everything and everybody all round him surreptitiously.

 

But when Dad’d been gone for just a short while, something _very, very horrible_ had happened right in front of him, some distance away from the pier into the sea, half obscured by the bulks of other boats.

 

The young boy had been shoved _off_ the sailboat, most likely by the elderly man sharing the boat, since Kad hadn’t seen anybody leaning out over the edge of the boat prior to the incident.

 

“ _Dad!_ ” he’d blurted, screaming over the comlink. “The kid – he’s _drowning_!”

 

And how awesome Dad’d been. Suddenly a blueish blur had _flown_ over to the very spot to which Kad’s eyes had still been fixed with morbid fascination. And in a moment, both had burst out of the sea, still flying.

 

But something had gone wrong, a second after. Kad could have almost _seen_ the other boy being separated from Dad, by way of a thin bright stream from the sailboat, though Dad had seemed to be struggling against it with all his might.

 

It hadn’t been enough, though.

 

The pair, struggling to be with each other, had been drawn _fast_ towards the side of the sailboat, looking like they would’ve been bashed against it seconds afterwards.

 

Kad had _refused_ that outcome.

 

The other boy had _fought_ , at last, so he’d joined in.

 

And… well… here was the result: Both had crashed onto the pier, Dad had immediately begun to pump out the water from inside the other boy, onlookers had begun to gather about, and the said other boy… Well, the other boy had only flopped about, spluttering and whimpering. Understandable, really. Kad would’ve done just the same!

 

The onlookers were beginning to be not just some spectators, though. They’re getting closer, clamouring, reaching out…

 

Kad couldn’t stand it.

 

“Dad, let’s go,” he begged outright for once, crouching as close as possible to dad in the mientime.

 

And again, Dad stood up, carrying the other boy in his arms, _complying with Kad_.

 

The elderly man was approaching the pier fast in the sailboat, but Dad had already stridden away towards the jeep with his burden, tailed closely by Kad and surrounded by the fussy, grabbing-and-tugging mob. The press of humanity, added to the stress of the very recent experience and the pursuit the elderly man was giving _invisibly_ via invisible ropes tugging at the three of them, which Kad and the other boy countered as best as they could, still in tandem, got more and more unbearable by the moment. It triggered a fight-or-flight instinct in Kad, and most possibly in the unnamed other boy too, and Kad could acutely feel _something_ starting to gather in his insides in response to his distress.

 

Before anything could happen, though, the spectators suddenly pulled back from their little huddle.

 

No, no, on second thought, no. They didn’t pull back by themselves. They _were pulled back_ by… something…

 

“Tippy,” the other boy croaked weakly, as they got within sight of the jeep. It was the first word _ever_ the boy said in the father and son’s vicinity, and Kad felt somehow a little bit hurt by it.

 

But the hurt, as irrational and faint as it was, faded quickly once a small being with greenish skin popped softly into existence right in their path, looking strained and with one tiny, spindly arm raised as if warding a blow. Dad gruffly ordered it… him? Her?… aside, and it obeyed, but it kept up with them despite its tiny legs and mighty strain, and now Kad could faintly feel the protection it wove round their little party.

 

The four of them piled into the front seats of the jeep in short. Kad’s feeling of gratitude to the little greenish being was washed away almost entirely, unfortunately, when Dad kept the unnamed boy in his lap, while Kad was delegated back to his own car-seat, now with the little greenish being perched lightly, gingerly on his knees. Dad’s lap was supposed to be his!

 

But, if firstly Kad was to be drowned by, say, Uncle Vern, before he got such luxury that he’d been able to get time and time again beforehand, and he could barely enjoy the experience – like the other boy seemed to be, right now – then, on second thought, he’d rather be dry and untraumatised and just waiting for his turn later.

 

On third thought, with how the other boy was staring at him gratefully, seeming not to realise on whom he was perched, maybe it’s good to have a brother.

 

Maybe, maybe.


	17. Bundling the Bunch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Being a new anything is sadly more daunting and overwhelming than exciting, oftentimes.

**22nd December 1988**

 

37.

 

Neville couldn’t believe it. Now that he was back on firm ground – or rather, in a strange vehicle with two strange people and Tippy – he shivered far harder than when he’d been flailing underwater. It’s far colder than the sea had been! Worse, they weren’t stopping any time soon, it seemed, and nobody – not even Tippy seemed to be willing to–

 

“Master Neville? Shall Tippy fetch Master Neville’s clothes?”

 

Gratitude to his best friend of three days warmed him a little.

 

But, “No. No need,” the armoured being encircling him cut in firmly, and the faint warmth he’d felt vanished like a new flower bud blown over by a killing frost.

 

Out of the acromantula’s pincer, into the dragon’s mouth.

 

He’d been saved from drowning, but he’d still die from terrible cold, by the same person no less.

 

How ironic.

 

Somewhere, or somewhen, somebody must have cursed him with terrible bad luck.

 

But… but…

 

…Why didn’t Tippy just act on his hidden wish, like when he’d wanted some water or a towel, when he’d worked in his greenhouse these past three days? Why had she _asked_ , instead of just doing what she’d thought best for him? Why had she _obeyed_ the armoured being, who was nobody in relation to him? Life debt didn’t work this way, right?

 

He tried to catch the house-elf’s eyes, but she was looking down at her toes, hunching into herself in a picture of misery. Was there a ward round this vehicle that prevented her from popping away, like when Uncle Algie had wrenched her away that time in the sailboat? Was it somehow tied to this captor, so she needed the armoured being’s permission, and she’d just asked it in a roundabout way by offering to fetch Neville some dry clothes?

 

“Tippy?” he ventured, also cringing, fearing some kind of retribution for his defiance from the being still wrapped nonchalantly round him, in case his suspicion was right.

 

“Tippy be sorry, Master Neville,” the house-elf whimpered in answer, addressing his hidden hurt. But it was _not_ what he’d sought!

 

It proved something, though: There was no problem with her detecting his inner wishes and general thoughts; it was still working well. Only…

 

“Why can’t you help me?” He hated his own voice; it chattered not only with the chill of the icy water trapped in his winter apparel, but also with hurt and vulnerability, and even a smattering of betrayal.

 

Time and time again, after his forced death-defying stunts, Grannie had _always_ been harping about him growing a backbone and a stiff upper lip, to match his parents, and Uncle Algie had always concurred – Uncle Algie, the _perpetrator_ of those forced death-defying stunts. Was he going to be looked down upon by _total strangers_ now?

 

“Tippy be sorry, Master Neville,” the house-elf repeated; but before he could work up the hurt into anger, something that he didn’t often feel and would rather avoid, she continued, now staring directly into his eyes, “Tippy asked because Tippy be not certain if Tippy should go fetch Master Neville’s clothes. If Tippy goes and fetches Master Neville’s things, Master Algie tags where Tippy goes back. There be a ward for house-elves already there, set by Master Algie, to tag Tippy. If Master Neville wishes to stay with Master Neville’s new Father and brother, Master Neville best hides from Master Algie. Tippy can’t fetch Master Neville’s clothes, though, if Master Neville chooses this way.”

 

The mass of coloured metal plates and odd assortment of metallic things loosely cocooning him tensed. Neville tensed as well, expecting the worst.

 

But all that the being said was, “You wish to be my child, stranger?”, and all that the being did was speeding up the vehicle, judging from how faster the houses, trees, other vehicles and pavement features flashed by compared to beforehand.

 

 _Stranger_. What a nasty word: simple but stabbing, _burning_.

 

Neville hunkered as best as he could into himself, shivering harder. _Stranger_. So harsh.

 

Was he going to submit himself to the authority of such a cruel being, which mightn’t even be _human_? Was he exchanging the cruelty of Uncle Algie with this unknown _thing_? He couldn’t even get dry! Uncle Algie’d usually let him recover himself after his death-defying acts, before–

 

–But if Tippy had been right, and she was often right, somehow, in some way, deep inside of him, _subconsciously_ , he’d accepted this mass of metal plates and the now-unspeaking tiny child wrapped thickly in winter apparel as his _family_. And even if he couldn’t trust her, the memory of the struggle after he’d been drown was still vivid in his mind, in his heart.

 

He remembered the strong arms wrapping round him, tugging him away from a watery grave, defending him, when he’d truly been a stranger.

 

He remembered the insistence of the other youth – the other boy now looking at him silently, he was sure of it – that his saviour hadn’t been Tippy, but _Dad_ , and he’d _agreed_ to that appellation, wholeheartedly.

 

Was he going to deny it – deny _himself_ – now, just because he wanted to get warm?

 

And the arms, they’re still wrapped round him even now, though rather loosely. And judging from the streak of jealousy he could see from the other boy, this position was desired not only by him.

 

He wasn’t a freak, for wanting the arms never to leave him.

 

Well, then, at least, if he was going to die by chill anyway, he was going to die in his saviour’s arms. Hopefully Mum and Dad wouldn’t be mad, when they saw each other in the afterlife. He might have to wait for some time, though, since Mum and Dad were only insensate, not dying, thus far.

 

But why was the vehicle slowing down? They’re in the middle of nowhere!

 

The other – probably far younger – boy seemed baffled as well. “Dad? Why we stopping here? Where we going?”

 

Neville’s captor – no, he couldn’t call the being “Dad” yet, maybe not ever, with the memory of a white-haired shrivelled man lying unseeing and nearly unmoving on a bed in Saint Mungo’s long-term damage ward being all too fresh in his mind, but maybe… – well, Neville’s _saviour_ answered shortly, curtly in a language he didn’t know.

 

A moment after, the vehicle came to a fullstop beside a copse of trees. And without further ado or warning, the outer winter gear got pealed off from Neville, followed by the rest of his clothes. The being – a man, maybe, judging from its… his… oddly reverberating, unnatural male-sounding voice – seemed to be selectively deaf to his squeak of surprise and confusion and fear on that.

 

Worse, Tippy _didn’t help_. And the other boy, though equally surprised and baffled it seemed, didn’t help either, just gaping at it all with wide eyes.

 

Neville couldn’t deny it, though, that the warmth blowing at him from a small gridded rectangular opening near the steering wheel – a slot with warming runes, maybe? – worked well as an invisible towel: drying and warming him.

 

Wellhe, he still felt ridiculous, sitting in the nude on the seat formerly occupied by that mad thing in armour, whom he’d subconsciously chosen as his guardian.

 

In the mientime, the mass of metal plates itself got out of the vehicle, opened what might be some back door of the same contraption, and rummaged in the heaps and piles and stacks of items behind the two only occupyable seats. For some clothes for him, maybe? Or perhaps for a place for him to sit on? Among all those books and boxes and unrecogniseable items? But then, why was the other boy scrambling to amidst the Muggle-looking things first, happily at that, before he was ever ordered to do so, and the curt unknown man didn’t berate the said boy?

 

What a family.

 

38.

 

Jango had no idea, _whatsoever_ , on how things had gone weird so much so soon. He’d been ready for things to go sour, his experiences since he’d been eight and seen his birth parents killed in front of him had taught him amply, but not… _this_.

 

He’d wanted a respite, and gotten into tideous jobs instead. He’d wanted to explore away from a big city, and acquired a son instead. He’d wanted to raise the child according to his customs, and found out the said child had beyond Jedi-like powers instead. He’d wanted to just go back into the galaxy proper with his new son, and gotten into altercation after altercation instead. He’d wanted to treat his son into a tiny relaxation time before departure, and ended up saving a boy from being drowned by an old man instead. And now, _yet another boy_ – another messed-up boy – wanted to be his son, although he wasn’t fully ready yet to even take care of _one_ child, and the said boy brought his strange little _servant_ with beyond Jedi-like powers, _too_.

 

He was actually _afraid_ of what he would find in the next leg of their journey, before they reached the place where he had hidden his little shuttle… had it been only half a month ago?

 

Worse, the journey was now _lengthened_ , and he couldn’t possibly avoid this extention, since the second boy, now garbed in Kad’s old rags given no other available clothes in the jeep in his size, had just _confirmed_ that he wanted to be Jango’s son, _reluctantly_ at that. He couldn’t be a good father, could he, if he forced a potential son into accepting him in any way? Before speaking the sacred words of adoption, he’d have to speak one to one with the boy, then have another session with both the boy and Kad, and potentially the little humanoid of a servant also, and it’d take _time_.

 

Time, and money, and energy, and space, and sustenance.

 

And supplies, too, should the boy fully accept being his son later on, since the said boy had only come with the clothes on his back, a small knife, and a strange ball-like cluster of tentacle-like strips.

 

And that would mean, he’d have to scratch away yet another document or three for any of the boring agencies he’d been freelancing in, in order not to deplete his fast-dwindling coffers any further and faster.

 

And _that_ would mean, more _time_ spent in this tech-forsaken planet.

 

What a vicious circle.


	18. A Famous Family, Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's all the fault of purple prose and wild imagination, yes it is!

**22nd December 1988**

 

39.

 

Neville had experienced many awkward silences, mostly because of his gaffs or when he’d been visiting with his parents in the long-term spell damage ward at Saint Mungo’s; but _this_ silence, like many of today’s experiences, was novel to him.

 

In the long, long ride in what was called – after he’d nerved himself up to ask the man – a “jeep,” the silence had been of tension and wariness of unfamiliarity among them.

 

During the many ventures into Muggle shopping areas, to apparently stock up for necessities and also a few sets of clothes _for him_ , it had been that of the same, added with a dash of awkwardness and bemusement in all three parties, but then it’d been three against the unfamiliar world.

 

The tension had relaxed a little when they’d stopped near this small Muggle hotel in Devon, at long last; but it’d been more because both he and the other boy had felt rather tired and sleepy, than because of any thawing from any parties involved. The awkward aspect of their continuous silence had been heightened instead as the man had negotiated the rental of a room for one night for the three of them, since the lady at the front desk had been a little suspicious of the armoured being’s claim on both boys as _sons_ ; or maybe, she’d been suspicious with his armour.

 

But now, as the man – bringing Tippy with him, unfortunately – had left both boys alone in the room together with three Muggle backpacks an an order to take a nap, the silence had sizzled and expanded, like a potion about to explode. Unasked questions, unexpressed curiosity and heightened wariness to each other filled the tiny space of the simple chamber with nearly tangible tingles.

 

They were seated on opposite corners at the foot of the pair of narrow beds set parallel to each other, but presently Neville wished they’d been in different rooms instead.

 

With such an _old_ gaze, it seemed so weird, so _freaky_ , that the other boy was _tiny_. It didn’t help that the said other boy was still garbed in his full winter gear, with a strange skullcap-only white-and-blue helmet peeking out of his hood, and a pair of rounded objects clinging to the helmet’s straps respectively by the ear and mouth. He didn’t look like a Wizarding child, but neither did he look like the average Muggle children Neville had encountered in one of their jaunts into Muggle shops this morning and afternoon. The urge to just _ask_ got more unbearable the longer the silence stretched, but…

 

…Was it… What was _it_ – the glimpse of a dark jagged line on the younger boy’s forehead above his right eye, exposed when he’s scratching round the area? Was it…

 

“Can I see?” Neville blurted instinctively, and the silence broke _loudly_ into pieces.

 

He flinched, and so did the other boy, with the same nervous reaction. What a pair…

 

“See what?” came the soft, timid answer, and Neville’s opinion of the pair of them was confirmed.

 

“The… Do you have a _scar_?” And, lacking the words to express his full question, while knowing acutely that he was being rude, Neville pointed at his own brow above the right eye. “Sorry,” he tagged for good measure, with flaming cheeks.

 

“Oh,” was what the other boy murmured, before, without hesitation or any regard to what he was doing, he pushed the front of his skullcap helmet up slightly, to expose his brow.

 

And there, perched boldly above his right eyebrow nearer the centre of his forehead, sat a dark, jagged line of scar, shaped like a lightning bolt.

 

And the boy’s eyes were green… and his hair was black and messy…

 

“Harry Potter,” Neville breathed, automatically, awestruck. Who in the Wizarding World didn’t know that scar? Who in the Wizarding World didn’t know about the boy-who-lived and his facial details, anyway? And _who_ in the Wizarding World wouldn’t be awestruck the first time he met _the boy-who-lived_ , especially in such a weird, awkward, unexpected situation like this, even if the person might be a Death Eater? Let alone a nobody like Neville _Disappointment_ Longbottom.

 

But the boy-who-lived’s reaction, it was _totally_ unexpected indeed. Neville expected denial, confirmation, boasting even, not…

 

…“Where you got that name?” – A demand, a _frightened_ demand, baffled too, and, in a flash, what looked like the business end of a small, somewhat bulky metallic thing was aimed at the centre of Neville’s chest, gripped tightly by the other boy – _Harry Potter_ – by its perpendicular handle, as the said boy leapt to his feet.

 

“Wha?” Neville squawked, leaning back in shock and fear, looking away from the pair of vivid green eyes now sharpened by pain and hurt and various other emotions he couldn’t clearly see. “Is… isn’t that your _name_? You… You’re _the boy-who-lived_! Everybody _knows_ about you! It’s not only me!”

 

“ _Everybody_?” the other boy – Harry? – breathed slowly, and Neville flinched, empathising with the raw pain and loss loaded in that one word.

 

“Everybody, in the Wizarding World,” he confirmed, still. He didn’t know why Harry didn’t know, but now that he got the chance to rectify the ignorance, he grabbed it with both hands. He didn’t like not knowing, and suspected that Harry’s feeling about it doubled the measure, so he’d do his best.

 

“Wizarding World?” the other boy parroted, with less intensity, and lowered the thing – which was what might be a weapon – slightly, no longer pointing straight at Neville.

 

This latest development only served to make Neville not too dissimilar from his counterpart, again: agitated and baffled. “You don’t know about the Wizarding World?” he gaped, and at last looked once more into Harry’s eyes.

 

The other boy burst out laughing, and Neville’s hair stood on end.

 

It was the sound of a child’s laughter, the sound that he himself emitted in the rare chance that something or somebody made him feel tickled, but something in it didn’t belong to a child, _at all_.

 

Flat, bitter, mocking.

 

“I don’t even know if it’s truly my name or not,” came the brutally honest confession, afterwards. “Aunt Tuney told me to use Harry James Potter for school a couple of years ago.” Then, as if remembering something too late and realising he’d made a blunder, the boy – just hours younger than Neville, if he was indeed Harry Potter – clamped up visibly: sinking back into his corner perch, hunching into himself, looking down at the tips of his boots.

 

Neville could empathise, _very much_ , though not to the no-name part, so he didn’t push for more. Maybe Harry wasn’t allowed to reveal his identity by whoever the armoured being was? So… “What do you think of Tippy?”

 

The look of sincere gratitude on Harry’s face, formerly so crestfallen and tight, would linger for a _very_ , very, very long time in Neville’s memory, no doubt. It was the first time _ever_ that such a look was flashed at _him_ , after all.

 

They fell into conversations – reminiscences in Neville’s part and thoughts in Harry’s part – about Tippy, the house-elves in general, the magical and non-magical worlds, and all the magical practises, aspects and ways that Neville knew. After some insistence in Harry’s part, Neville even confessed about the speculations on what had happened the night Harry had become famous for surviving the Killing Curse, including the approximate date and place. He also ended up talking about the Harry Potter books written by Gilderoy Lockhart later on, detailing Harry’s childhood roaming the world, battling trolls and dragons and nundus and basilisks and acromantulas, learning difficult potion making skills and awesome spells to combat the dark side, being the honoured guest to so many noble personages and families, living in a spectacular castle with adoring and attentive servants whenever he wanted to relax away from adventuring…

 

The very last topic killed their new sense of peace and camaraderie, quite effectively.

 

Harry fled to the bathroom and locked himself inside. He wouldn’t open the door, and shouted instead – with alarmingly quivering and cracking voice – to be left alone, even when Neville begged most frantically and most plaintively at him from the other side of the said door. That made Neville feel even more wretched than before their long chat; and worse, _he didn’t know why_ – why Harry had reacted so _crushed_ and _betrayed_ in regard to those children stories, instead of merely offended at most.

 

Harry had been _pleased_ when they’d been talking about similarly mundane things, for Merlin’s sake! And Neville hadn’t minded it, chuffed with the illusion that he was more knowledgeable than the Boy-Who-Lived, or anyone for that matter, for once. He’d been equally pleased, in fact, if only with the factual lack of scorn or boredom directed to him in Harry’s part, as if they’re just old friends chatting with each other.

 

Nobody else had been so pleased _with him_ , let alone for him.

 

And now…

 

He returned to the bed and plonked his bum on his former seat on its corner, staring gloomily at the opposite side, where Harry had seated himself just moments ago.

 

The tiny, run-down hotel room felt too large, now, large and empty, and Neville hated it. His rooms at home had a similar vibe, and he’d hated living there; but at least there he had his greenhouse to flee too most of the times, and also his herbology books and scrolls.

 

And then, to top his misery off, the armoured being returned, while Harry hadn’t come out yet, though quite a while had passed. The quiet thudding of the armoured boots of the huge hulking figure on the wooden floor was like drumbeats of doom in his ears.

 

His elderly aunts and uncle had blamed him for the decline of their House both financially and in prestige, he knew that, though they’d never told him outright, and though his grandmother had mercifully disagreed with them. Then, there was no reason _not_ to expect that this particular adult, more Harry’s guardian than his by this point, would also blame him for Harry’s current state of being, was it.

 

In this case, he was fully blameable anyway. After all, he’s the one who’d brought up the Harry Potter books, which seemed to have upset Harry so much.

 

He told the grown-up just so, when the latter got fully into the sleeping area of the tiny room. He could see Tippy wringing her hands half behind the armoured bulk of the man’s body and giving him pleading, fearful looks; but he couldn’t just avoid this.

 

It’s his _responsibility_ , and Grannie had taught him to always own up to his responsibilities.

 

Strangely enough, though the grown-up clenched his fists till a crieking sound was heard in the overly silent atmosphere – and what a fearsome sight he made! – he didn’t seem to be mad at Neville. Instead of berating – or, Merlin forbid, hitting – the quivering, cringing boy, he whirled about and stalked back towards the short hallway leading to the front door, which also featured the door to the bathroom on its left-hand-side-going-out wall. There, he stood silently for some time, before addressing Harry in a soft, nearly inaudible tone, sounding so gentle that Neville was flabbergasted by the contrast. – ` _Can such a fearsome figure speak like **that**?_ ` But his ears didn’t lie, neither did his clenching heart, bursting with visceral longing.

 

The boy, desperately trying to distract himself, huddled with his house-elf on his perch on the corner edge of the bed, taking solace as much as he could in the time he was unexpectedly given. No doubt Harry’s guardian left him be just to stew some, before returning with greater measure of indignation, like Aunt Maizy, so he must be prepared at least mentally.

 

He told himself that, at least.

 

The current lack of confrontation and the prior lack of heat towards him had drained his tension almost fully, however, and left him even more sleepy than before.

 

And between one breath and the next, he knew no more.


	19. A Famous Family, Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jango Fett got _speechless_. His son came with a _huge_ baggage.

**22nd December 1988**

 

40.

 

Something new, hot and fierce, bubbled up from deep in Jango’s gut, as he picked the primitive lock to the bathroom and stepped as confidently as he could into the tiny refresher area. Kad was curled up tight in the shower area with his back against the door, his shoulders shaking.

 

The boy had yet again told an outsider an important piece of information, but it wasn’t what raised Jango’s hackles. The other boy had petitioned – in however roundabout way – to be his son, after all, so the information was safe. Now, what he could _not_ accept was the notion that, while Kad had been left alone, beaten and ignorant in an abusive home for _years_ , somebody had made use of his name for a _completely untrue_ profile of a famous, rich, adventurous, powerful, fully capable young man with various connections in a world the boy never knew. No wonder Kad felt utterly crushed.

 

Now, he also wondered, what _else_ had been hidden away from the boy for a similarly selfish or malicious reason? And _that_ only fuelled his rare but dangerous temper further.

 

Coaxing one’s reluctant child from a favoured place and up into one’s arms was a new art he was learning for the first time, but one that he willingly engaged in. He only wished he’d learnt it in a better, brighter circumstance. He was woefully inadequate in trying to comfort anyone other than warriors.

 

But he would try, a thousand times he would try, for _his son_.

 

Another blow greeted him in the sleeping area. The other boy, named Neville, was sprawled sidewise on the spot he’d left him in, either asleep or unconscious, with a pinched, restless look lingering on his childishly rounded face.

 

The scene was _wrong_ ; such a wretched, _adult_ countenance, on a pampered-looking little child, not even like a scrawny, bedraggled, unkempt waif – like Kad had been when they’d met.

 

A split second later, he noticed the little humanoid sentient from earlier, Neville’s _servant_ , flinch onto its feet, from its perch on the very edge of the bed, surrounded by its insensate master. It was behaving as if it had done something unlawful that was worthy of a very strong censure.

 

And, “Master Muggle?” the little thing squeaked in a fearful voice, looking up with wide blue eyes and wringing her hands.

 

This latest view, it sent yet another pang through his recently abused heart. The tone, the mannerism, the overall look of the little sentient, it screamed out “ _Slave_ ” to him, bright and clear.

 

The little sentient was not some paid servant, like he’d reckoned until seconds ago.

 

He hadn’t put any thought on slavery before that fateful day four years ago, but now that he’d _tasted_ how being a slave felt…

 

“I am _Jango Fett_. My name not _Muggle_ , whatever it, and don’t call me Master,” he growled lowly.

 

The rather mild reprove didn’t give him a better response, however, just _worse_. The little being cringed, looked down at its unshod toes, and wrung its hands ever harder as if wanting to break them.

 

Sighing, he gave up for the time being. There were much more pressing matters to tackle right now, unfortunately, however disturbed he felt on sheltering a boy who kept a slave, a boy who _wanted to be his son_.

 

There were so many problems to tackle, and so little time to do so. He didn’t want to spend any more time than strictly necessary on this planet, he’d decided, so he was setting a tight deadline on himself. The fishy business that seemed to surround Kad’s past, heritage, inheritance, powers and future could have more chance to catch up to him, he feared, if they staid here for too long.

 

However, he didn’t know where to start in dealing with all these crucial matters, for once.

 

Making a living as a mercenary, then being a labour slave for four years, hadn’t taught him much about handling and navigating unseen delicate or intricate problems – or _both_ at once. And, for that matter, being born and raised for his first eight years as a farmboy hadn’t helped him any.

 

Huffing internally, he decided to deal with the obvious and the very near problem first. Sleeping like that mustn’t be comfortable for his – thus far – houseguest… “Lay Neville better. I will check on him.”

 

Then, seating himself on the same spot on the opposite bed, he began to release himself from his weapons and armour pieces, with Kad curled up in his lap, still unresponsive. There had been no visible threats thus far, from what he had seen and what the little servant – the little _slave_ – had confirmed, though he couldn’t say _yet_ how someone with beyond Jedi-like powers might be able to crash into this current sanctuary of his and his family’s, so he could afford to relax some. Besides, somehow, for the first time _ever_ since he’d received the armour as a right-of-passage gift from his adoptive father Jaster, he couldn’t stand existing within the armoured suit outside of combat situation.

 

“What is your name?” he asked the little slave as, last of all, he worked his helmet free with one hand, while the other hand was still curled round Kad’s shoulders.

 

“I be Tippy, Mas– Jango Fett, sir,” came the prompt but timid response, still addressed to the wooden floor. Jango sighed again.

 

“What species you?” he continued, forcing himself to sound polite and bland, instead of perturbed.

 

“Tippy be house-elf, sir.” This time the answer came in a firmer, even brighter tone.

 

Jango couldn’t help raise an eyebrow to that. ` _Brainwashing? Natural state of a creature-like species?_ ` he wondered; so, “All house-elves like you?” he asked out loud.

 

“More or less, sir.”

 

Uneasiness thickening, Jango followed up with, “You want free?”

 

From the little being’s reaction, it was as if Jango had proposed to butcher it alive. The odd creature threw itself at Jango’s feet in a show of abject fear and subservience, shivering and whimpering an incoherent plea.

 

He recoiled and moved to the side by reflex, his eyes wide with shock, horror and revulsion. He’d never gotten such response from anybody until just now; his enemies had _all_ been too dignified for such desperate measures; and presently he found out how nauseating the experience was.

 

Jolted by his sudden move, Kad stirred in his arms and looked up. The boy no longer looked so blank and buried deep in his mind: the only good thing that came out of this, in Jango’s opinion, because the growing alarm on Kad’s face on seeing the odd little slave prostrated on the floor was certainly _not_ to his taste.

 

“You know other house-elves, Tippy?” he asked the odd creature, while motioning the latter to return to its seat on the opposite bed.

 

Kad relaxed when they looked to be on equal footing once more, physically at least. Jango agreed completely with him.

 

The father and son agreed with each other, too, that there was something seriously askew with what Tippy dubbed as “the Wizarding World.”

 

“Tippy knows some, Master Jango Fett, sir.”

 

“Not many?” But then, Jango really hoped there weren’t many creatures trapped as slaves like this one was.

 

“House-elves goes only where masters goes, Master Jango Fett, sir. Mistress Agusta and her family doesn’t mingle much, not after Master Frank and Mistress Alice be in Saint Mungo’s.”

 

…A vain hope, apparently…

 

“Neville’s parents? They’re still alive?” Kad sounded shocked. Jango had to agree with him on this one, too, and felt the slightest bit betrayed.

 

Neville had never indicated that his parents were still alive.

 

But…

 

“Mind hurts, Master Harry Potter, sir. Master Frank and Mistress Alice be great Aurors when Master Neville be tiny, days after Master James and Mistress Lily dead. Then bad people comes and make Master Frank screams. They gets Mistress Alice next, then Master Neville, then Aurors comes and catches bad people.” The large ears, looking disturbingly like Yoda’s, that damned “Grand Master of the Jedi,” drooped.

 

Jango’s heart twinged and burned, but not only because of the unwanted, eerie likeness to _that_ Jedi.

 

Who’d want to torture a _baby_?

 

He wanted to ask that, wanted to demand some clarification and details and further information, but Kad was a hard coil of bones in his lap now.

 

He’d pick another time, when Kad was distracted, calmer, not there, or all three states at once. He was a rather patient man when he wanted to be so, if he said so himself; and, more often than not, an evasion tactic won him big games, compared to a bull-headed rampage. The little creature – Tippy? – wasn’t going anywhere, anyway, if he didn’t boot Neville out back to the boy’s relatives.

 

“Tippy?”

 

“Yes, Master Jango Fett, sir?” – Damn. It’s back to calling him _Master_ again; he’d thought the previous occasion had been a fluke. But at least now he knew it’s named Tippy.

 

“Are you male, female, or asexual?” ` _Start from something easy._ ` – And the bonus point was: Kad laughed at the blunt question, and uncoiled a little, too.

 

“Tippy be female, sir.” Those bugged-out blue eyes mellowed a little, not so wary and pained anymore. Jango patted himself on the back. He didn’t like causing unnecessary misery and agony.

 

Now… “Did you know Kad’s birth parents?” Petunia Dursley hadn’t given satisfactory information about her sister and brother-in-law. Vernon Dursley had been worse, and Dudley had been practically useless. So–

 

“Kad, sir?” – ` _Argh, osik!_ `

 

“My son. Kad Fett.” He wasn’t going to call Kad by _that_ name, the name Petunia had confirmed for him alongside the boy’s birth date: Harry James Potter. Kad had never grown into that name, even though he’s _eight years old_ already, and it’s beginning to look like that name wasn’t even worth being used as a pseudonym.

 

Tippy’s eyes bugged out even more, if it was even possible. But Jango couldn’t understand why it – _she_ – looked partly scandalised, though she did look happy for the most part, probably for Kad’s adoption.

 

He felt scandalised by that scandalised look.

 

And then, the dam spilt.

 

James and Lily Potter had been good friends with Frank and Alice Longbottom since their school days. A particularly taxing war in the hidden community of Force users – Petunia had told him that much – had been raging then, and both families had hidden themselves when the mothers had been expecting.

 

And then, it suddenly stopped, _just like that_ , the night Kad had been orphaned. Rumours that had raged through the house-elven and human grapevines said that the unnamed fearsome, cruel, _powerful_ leader of the opposite party in the war had been killed, by _Kad_ – a _one-year-old **baby**_.

 

Rumours also said that Sirius Black, Kad’s _legal guardian_ , had been denied guardianship by the leader of the “good” party in the war, Albus Dumbledore, hours before he’d gone chasing down one of his best friends and killing the latter.

 

The man had been dubbed the betrayer of Kad’s birth parents and dumped into jail, _without any trial beforehand_.

 

And the day, the thirty-first of October, had been dubbed _Harry Potter Day_.

 

It was celebrated festively, _Until now_.

 

The day the whole family of an orphaned baby had been murdered, possibly even before his young eyes, and his legal guardian had been unceremoniously dumped into jail without firm evidence…

 

And then, there were also those _fictitious_ books detailing the exciting, glamorous, heroic, _mature_ childhood of “Harry Potter,” full of love, attention and wealth, which were as popular as the name Harry Potter itself.

 

And mere days after that fateful day, Kad had virtually lost his _other legal guardian_ , Alice Longbottom, to a torture, without a chance of even meeting her, after he’d been swept away from his dead parents by Albus Dumbledore or maybe the man’s agent.

 

And Neville had told Kad most of this osik; the boy had confessed so, before Jango had gone to the bathroom to pick up his dazed son.

 

No wonder Kad had broken down. Jango felt speechless, himself.

 

And just now, Jango had compounded the problem, by letting Kad _listen to the same osik **twice**_.

 

What a _great_ father…

 

…And a _messed-up_ little community.

 

Shab. He’d unknowingly been dragged into this mess.

 

But well, what could Jango Fett do?

 

Roll with the punch, of course.


	20. Interlude 2: Family Fretting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Care can be found in the oddest places and situations. Sadly, _un_ care works likewise.

**22nd December 1988**

 

41.

 

Neville stared.

 

He couldn’t decide whether he was to feel grateful, annoyed, or simply baffled. He couldn’t believe that he would ever feel _annoyed_ at his saviour, in the first place.

 

There was no mistake in the order, though, however poor the man’s English was, mixed with other words that must be from his own language.

 

Neville was to do _everything_ by himself now, despite Tippy’s constant presence in their little nest.

 

The man wanted him to be able to _survive_ , of all reasons.

 

What did Tippy’s helping him dry his damp-feeling, damp-smelling winter apparel have to do with his _inability to survive_? He wouldn’t be able to survive in _winter_ with _wet_ clothes, right? And by Merlin, he had been trying to rectify the problem before the man had interfered in his request to Tippy!

 

Then, there was also the thorny bush in their relationship and communication, namely the fact that the man hadn’t honoured him with an answer regarding his plea to become the man’s other son, to become Harry’s brother.

 

To become proper godbrothers, in more than just title, as Grannie had always bemoaned and pined for, cursing the names of Albus Dumbledore and You-Know-Who in the process.

 

But the man had indeed bought him clothes, without him asking for them, in more number and variety than he’d immediately needed no less, Muggle though they were all: two sets of winter undergarments, a rather comfy pair of thick pyjamas, two sets of winter daywear, and a full set of outdoorsy winter apparel including boots and gloves.

 

Like a caring relative.

 

Maybe even like a godfather… or a _father_.

 

In the end, he settled with being baffled nearly out of his mind.

 

42.

 

Jango wiped a hand across his face.

 

Just his _luck_ , that he got _two_ strange, incompetent, clueless little charges plus one oddball to care for. And that twisted luck was _compounded_ with the fact that he was still undecided about adopting Neville as his son…

 

That he was still to earn more money for his tiny family regardless, before they departed Earth…

 

That he couldn’t just leave the _many_ injustices piled on Kad exist any longer…

 

That he simply _couldn’t_ leave Neville back with the boy’s relatives, regardless of whatever his final decision on their future relationship would be…

 

That he was yet to figure out Tippy and what to do with her…

 

He couldn’t say he was a good man, after all this time and after all that he had done; but he’d made a vow to Kad to name the child his son, he’d vowed to himself that he’d treat _all_ the slaves that he came across as best as he could after his stint as one, and he’d vowed to his own adoptive father all those years ago that he’d take care of little orphans and homeless children who begged for his help.

 

Jango Fett _always_ kept his word.

 

The pile of problems that he’d scented during their awkward, silent jeep ride to this shabby, primitive hotel had just gone _slightly_ more tangible… and multiplied by a few factors… but he could deal with it, yes he could.

 

He _must_ , anyway.

 

Baby steps, baby steps. Now he’d just have to deal with Kad’s shaken state, a few consultative pieces to write in exchange for this planet’s – no, no, this _country’s_ – money to replenish his coffers, and Neville’s lack of confidence and independence. His growling stomach and Tippy’s constant state of anxiety and anxious helpfulness could wait for later.

 

They _must_ wait for later, or he’d go mad. And going mad when an avalanche of problems was about to tumble would mean a certain death sentence.

 

He wasn’t ready to die yet, especially _not_ in this primitive ball of water and soggy crust.

 

43.

 

Agusta Longbottom was _mad_.

 

She didn’t care that Algie was a respected Unspeakable, or that he was her closest cousin growing up, more her brother than her cousin. The man had had the gall to _drown her only grandson_ in yet another test to entice the boy’s magic out, then he’d **_lost_** _her **only grandson**_ after the test to a perfect stranger without much trying. And then she’d found out that Tippy, _her only house-elf_ , had somehow turned from a family elf to Neville’s personal elf, and naturally gone with him; and worse, Algie – that blithering _oaf_ – had also confessed that he’d tried to cut out the elf from Neville, so that she couldn’t have been able to save the boy should he drown.

 

And the worst thing was: Maizy, her younger sister, her only surviving sibling, the person who had comforted her the most all those years ago, when she’d found her Frank and his wife as a pair of drooling insensate shells on the floor in Neville’s nursery room, had told her bluntly just now that it’s better to have the line die out, rather than letting the Wizarding public find out three years from now that the sole heir of the line didn’t receive a Hogwarts letter.

 

It was the worst to her, because, until Algie had sheepishly reported that Neville had been kidnapped _on his watch_ by an armoured, faceless stranger flying with the aid of a pair of roaring metal tubes, she’d held quite a similar view.

 

Better dead than growing up a Squib.

 

But now, the very idea of never again looking at Neville puttering blissfully in his greenhouse jabbed mercilessly into her heart.

 

He might be a Squib, or he might not; but regardless, _she wanted her grandson back_.

 

Algie, Maizy, Enid and Ivrid had better be far, far away from her and her home until Neville was found. They’d better _not_ tell Frank and Alice anything about Neville’s kidnapping, too.

 

Frank and Alice might be oblivious, but Agusta never forgot the candy wrappers Alice had _always_ given Neville in each of the boy’s visits.

 

On second thought, maybe it’s better that she avoided visiting her son and daughter-in-law, too, this Christmas, if Neville wasn’t found by then.

 

The very idea just served to crush her more.

 

44.

 

Dudley looked round the busy peer, at the people in odd robes spewing white-coloured thin streams of light _everywhere_. His parents cowered at his either side, with his mother clutching his bag of snacks and his father carrying his holdall.

 

He wasn’t stupid. He had ears that he used to the fullest, now more than ever.

 

The masses talked about a flying robot in white and grey and blue, a small child in similar colouring if not garb, and another child heroically and impossibly saved by the flying robot.

 

The masses talked about streams of light flying towards the flying robot and the drowned child, about the four elderly people in robes having been seen clustered with the poor child beforehand; a strange, tragic travesty to a small adorable child, they’d said.

 

Then these other people in robes – _uniform robes_ , he could see – came and spewed out these lights that made people confused and blank and scatter.

 

And his parents had confessed to the robot about how freaky and unnatural Freak – no, _Harry_ – and Harry’s parents… were? Had been?…

 

He stepped back, and so did his parents.

 

Harry was no longer here, and so was the robot. He’d come here only for them, and they weren’t here. If he could fake a tantrum in order to flush them out, he would, but he had a gut feeling that it wouldn’t work.

 

Surprisingly, the prospect of failure in locating his cousin settled nauseatingly bitter in his mouth.

 

Maybe, better luck in another place? Mum had said something about a hidden pub near Cheiring Cross Road, through which freaks access their freaky world, when the robot had been interrogating his family.

 

If Mum wouldn’t bring him there, he could always sneak away.

 

By one way or another, he’d find Harry and the robot.

 

45.

 

Algernon “Algie” Croaker, Head of the Department of Mysteries, barely seated himself in the comfortably upholstered armchair, with how much he was wriggling in apparent excitement. Across from him, separated by an expanse of handsome oakwood desk, sat the Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, the Supreme Mugwump of the International Conference of Wizards, the Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry: Albus Percival Wolfric Bryan Dumbledore. The two old men had been classmates at Hogwarts more than a century ago, and their friendship persisted until now.

 

In fact, both were not meeting in their formal capacities right now, and Algie seemed quite eager to begin, barely seconds after his ample rump hit the provided seat.

 

“Albie, Neville’s a wizard! I managed to prove it! I knew it!” he burst out, grinning ecstatically, like a child given his most favourite treat. “Look!” He rummaged for something in his robe’s pocket, then thrust it across the desk, barely missing a stack of parchments and a pair of crooning, puffing, blinking magical devises in the process.

 

The palm-sized item, once laid gently on the bit of free space on the desk between them, turned out to be a stone disk, the topside surface of which was lined with a tight circle of precious and semiprecious gems etched with different runes. The centre, measuring about two fingers in diameter, looked like a minuscule pond filled with undulating diamond dust instead of water. And when the tip of Algie’s wand hit dead centre, the ‘water’ shot upwards to form glittery cursive lettering in two lines:

 

**Neville Franklin Longbottom † Mage  
Kad Fett † Mage**

 

Seeing the lines, Albus sucked in a breath. And seeing the apparently favourable reaction, Algie laughed. “I know, right?” he grinned beneath his white, thin mustache, his brown eyes twinkling gleefully. “All these years! Gus is mad at me, yes, but she’ll thank me after this, when she’s come to her senses. Neville will come to Hogwarts in three years! He’s even gained a friend, a powerful one at that.”

 

Albus doubted the claims, _all_ of them.

 

No, he didn’t doubt the power and accuracy of Algie’s magic measurer devise. The other man had worked on it faithfully all his life, after all, testing and refining it in all occasions and places round the globe for practically the same duration. But he doubted “Kad Fett” would go to Hogwarts in September three years from now, and with him Algie’s great-grandson.

 

A couple of days ago, Dedalus Diggle had reported the presence of Lily’s eyes on the face of a thin-faced boy near his home in Kent. The boy had been accompanied by just one adult, wrapped in weird Muggle armour in the colours of blue and white; an adult who’d been scarier than Lucius Malfoy, or so the excitable man had claimed.

 

Albus’ tracker had confirmed the identity.

 

Kad Fett and Jango Fett; not Harry Potter and Vernon Dursley, or Harry Potter and Petunia Dursley.

 

No longer.

 

And just yesterday evening, Albus had met the duo himself.

 

“I’m not that boy,” Harry Potter himself had confessed, after his fearfully skilful new guardian had downed _Albus Dumbledore_ with Muggle weapons, without any word spoken, let alone exchanged.

 

No, no, Harry Potter wouldn’t be returning to the Wizarding World in three years time, let alone to Hogwarts, unless he had a very good reason to do so; or maybe, not even then. Albus had resigned himself to that, and he had turned his attention to the other prophecied boy, whose guardian was equally frightening but at least familiar to him already.

 

And now, he received _this_ news smack on his face.

 

No, Neville Longbottom wouldn’t return to the Wizarding World, _either_ , if Harry Potter and his new guardian had any say in it. And judging from how the two magical signatures had been recorded together in the devise, Harry Potter would have _much_ say in it.

 

The words sat bitingly bitter in his mouth; but Albus would like to think he was Gryffindor enough to admit this to his best friend and colleague of more than a century.

 

He didn’t know, though, if he would be brave enough to face Agusta Longbottom later on, Gryffindor courage notwithstanding.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for the kudos and bookmarks, people! I highly appreciate them all, and your attention in the first place. I hope this has been entertaining for you. I've been catching this fic up with its counterpart on FFN; but I'd say, the version here is better, with the chapter summaries there, and it's all caught up by now, anyway.  
> Speaking of which, what do you think about the summaries? And the whole story, for that matter? If you would drop me a line (or 10 ;)) I would be much grateful -- and relieved, I'd admit, since your silence has been making me rather uneasy... Criticisms are welcome, you know, even of the harsh kind; or if it's just "The story is nice/kinda boring/sackarinish."  
> Well, but still, above all, I hope you'll be with me till the end of the ride, silent or not, and hope you've been enjoying it so far. :) Thanks for reading!  
> Rey


	21. An Informed Induction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Precious keepsakes and money cannot possibly beat loving care; but _still_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Umm, hello, folks. *wave a hand sheepishly* Long time no see… Sorry this one is short, and kinda fillerish, and maybe doesn’t answer many of your questions; but fact is, I’ve been weighed down by many things (RL is truly a slave driver), and noticed only quite recently about how long I hadn’t looked into this story. The next one is, hopefully, not long in coming.

**23rd December 1988**

 

46.

 

Neville stared at the only three things he had from his life – his _old_ life, as it were – laid on the ricketty desk side by side: the young gillyweed core now cared for in a hotel-provided squat-cylinder-shaped glass, his little potion knife, and the pile of winter clothes he had learnt to fold this morning by Tippy’s patient tutelage.

 

They felt like a paltry inheritance from his old life; just meaningless keepsakes, unlike his precious candy wrappers. And he couldn’t fetch the box of candy wrappers from home; not quite because Uncle Algie and everyone else were _there_ , but because he was very much in fear of _never escaping them again_.

 

He wasn’t certain if he’d survive Uncle Algie’s next scheme to draw out his magic, that’s why. He’d barely escaped this one, and it _hadn’t_ been thanks to his own skills, let alone magic.

 

He would like to think he was a rather good observer and judge of character, in addition to being somewhat sneaky in his attempts to weasel his way out of danger. – He wouldn’t have survived this long if he hadn’t constantly tried to read his relatives and anticipate when they were in the mood of bullying his magic out into view. – So, he would rather stick with this odd, unexpected duo, compared to braving his way through life with his relatives.

 

He still felt alone here, with two strangers who were content to ignore him for the most part – and worse, bask in their affection to each other _regardless of his presence_ ; But at least they didn’t mean him intentional harm. He wouldn’t forget any time soon that they’d _saved_ his sorry self from the hungry water yesterday. He believed it, too, when Jango Fett had promised that he wouldn’t die under the man’s watch if the latter could help it.

 

The man was harsh, intensely private, and picky to whom he would interact with, but he seemed to be a decent person and a good keeper of promises.

 

Still, it didn’t mean that Neville was thoroughly glad of having a new, safer roof to live under; relieved, yes, but not _glad_. He couldn’t help it! The man and the other boy…

 

He _envied_ them.

 

He realised it now, as he was left alone in the room, while the other two occupants were gone in search of lunch for them all alongside Tippy.

 

His chest had burnt with _envy_ last night, and he hadn’t realised it till now. He’d snuggled himself into bed and peeked at the other bed across the room; and under the dim, limited illumination of the nightlamp set on the nightstand between the two beds, he’d witnessed Harry Potter – who’d been far from the boy hero the books and stories had described – cuddling under the man’s powerful-looking arm, comfy and content as could be. The burn had only worsened in the morning, when he’d braved the possible consequences to ask Harry about the other boy’s sleeping arrangement, and Harry had frankly – so _happily_ – admitted to have experienced such for _three days in a row_.

 

A logical part of Neville’s mind had reasonably pointed out that he’d been alone in his huge bed in his huge living quarters at home anyway, for as long as he remembered, and that it must have been rather uncomfortable, filling the narrow bed with two people like that. However, it hadn’t mollified him any, and the chilly, clammy, empty feeling that he’d been plagued with since last night had persisted even until now.

 

He would – reluctantly – give away his box of candy wrappers to either the man or Harry, maybe after squirreling away one or two pieces for himself, _if_ he’d ever be treated thus – _like a son_ – for as long as he lived.

 

Life was unfair, though; he’d known that, and been reminded again by last night. So, he wouldn’t hold much hope for this one, either.

 

47.

 

Grilling Tippy thoroughly about spells, potions, magical trinkets and gadgets and the magical people themselves took Jango past lunch and well into packing up the baggage and the jeep in preparation for leaving Earth. Topics of magical communities and governments brought him and his three charges speeding to London, after they had dropped their belongings in the tiny shuttle Jango had concealed at the backyard of a country house nearby. A discussion on magical options of education and careers accompanied them past the dingy little pub on one of the numerous main roads on London, through to the tiny and no-less-dirty back courtyard of the said pub, and then to an entirely new world hidden behind a tap-passworded magical gateway pretending to be a brick wall that Tippy opened for them. Wizarding currency, economy, trading and ways of life replaced the topic of discussion between the outwardly calm man and the visibly flustered house-elf, even as the two boys, concealed under hooded winter cloaks just like Jango and Tippy, looked round with interest. Jango himself was fascinated with all the new things crowding his senses, here, but urgency always trumped leisure in his book, and so he kept pestering Tippy until they arrived at the steps of a big white building at the end of the very, very quaint winding-and-branching alley.

 

Gringotts, the Force-users’ _bank_.

 

He exchanged some of his “Muggle money” for a pitiful amount of Galleons, Sickles and Knuts. Internally baulking at the exchange rate of five pounds per Galleon, he inquired about the opposite… and struggled to comprehend the ludicrousness of it.

 

He might want to work or open a business somewhere in one of these communities, someday, then spend his money in the greater communities of this country, if looking at these horribly skewed exchange rates.

 

Well, but now he _needed_ these gold, silver and bronze coins to purchase information and knowledge, so he’d better shelve that thought for later.

 

 _Much_ later.

 

Because, on asking about the vault – or _vaults_ – Harry Potter might possess to the teller with “ **Personal Vault Access** ” indicated on the wooden nameplate on the goblin’s desk, with a Galleon sacrificed for secrecy, it turned out that Kad _did_ have lots of money.

 

Money, and lands, and titles, and marriage proposals, and other kinds of bequests, not only from family members and relatives but also from various grateful people _everywhere_.

 

The bequests from _grateful strangers_ were the worst, Jango suspected.

 

He didn’t fault Kad for breaking down there and then, necessitating the rental of a small, private, well-guarded conference room and a private teller. If he were Kad’s age, in this situation, after such horrible and isolated upbringing, he might have done the same.

 

Fanciful stories written by a heartless and ruthless fraud might be one thing; _reality_ was another thing entirely.

 

Kad had been loved; by faceless people and meaningless names on paper, but _he had been loved_ , and he hadn’t known it, hadn’t even known that a community like this had _existed_.

 

The death of whoever had placed Kad in that unbearable little suburban town, _with that family_ , would be drawn out, painful and merciless.

 

However, for now, it was even more imperative for Jango to spirit his charges _elsewhere_.

 

Of course, only _after_ cementing his guardianship over Kad, securing everything else to the boy’s name, hiring a curse-breaker – _or five_ – to track down the letters and loose gifts the boy might have gotten during these seven years, hiring the same people – _plus a troop of healers_ – to get rid of the _soul-shard_ embedded in the boy’s lightning-bolt scar that the first curse-breaker had noticed, buying books to supplement the boy’s education as a _lord_ in this horribly quaint community…

 

In the end, to his internal horror and shame, although Kad was all for it, Jango had to tap into the boy’s trust fund, to pay for all the unexpected – and unexpectedly long – list of expenses.

 

How glad he was, when they escaped back into a less complicated, less befuddling community, on the other side of the dingy little gateway pub that was the Leaky Cauldron.

 

Now, to Saint Mungo’s Hospital for Magical Maladies, to say a – _maybe_ – temporary good-bye to Neville’s parents, as per the pudgy boy’s abject pleading.

 

Being a good person was tiring.

 

Being a parent was _exhausting_.


End file.
